Cheat Sheet
by Azrael Gaunt
Summary: SLASH It took Kingsley 3 months and 10 firewhiskeys to convince Potter to take a vacation. But, Harry's Auror instincts won't rest for the hols. In the US, Dick Roman rubs him the wrong way and he's wondering why he's the only one gawking at Crowley's hellhound. Then, he meets the Winchesters and, after interrogation, becomes a member of the team in Project Leviathan. S/H
1. Prologue

**_A/N: IMPORTANT INFO for plot:_**

_Harry Potter x Supernatural Crossover_

_*Plot changes:_

_-Harry scatters the Hallows, but is still the Master of Death, non-Epilogue compliant_

_-Bobby doesn't die. At this point in time (in season 7), we are pre the discovery of Kevin Tran and the whole bone soaked in blood thing. Crowley isn't working with Roman._

_Warnings: AU, OOC, crossover, language, slash, sexual content (later), violence, Sam/Harry (probably), un-beta'd, I update when I want to...XD_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKRowling and Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and probably more companies. Not me. At all. I just borrow characters for fun._

Me: _Hey. So...Please, stick around :) I'm debating between Sam/Harry, Crowley/Harry, or Dean/Harry...But, I'm leaning towards Sam/Harry. Nearly 95%. If you have an opinion, let me know in a review or PM. Surprise! There's a plot to this, too. Not just PWP. _

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet _**

Prologue

* * *

Harry never quite described himself as an adrenaline junkie, but if there was one thing he sufficed he could not live without, it was the thrill of the fight.

Ever since that fateful day when Voldemort marked him as his equal, Harry had been a fighter. He flirted deviously with danger, charging head first into it as blind as a bat, but no matter how many burning buildings or dark duels he threw himself into, he always came out unscathed—alive, with an orgasmic sensation of pure satisfaction humming through his body to the point that he felt it brand his soul with purpose.

Surviving? It was what Harry did. Harry Potter was the living, breathing physical manifestation of the term survivalist.

And Harry whole-heartedly realized that. After the war, when Hermione had dragged Ron to finish their last year at Hogwarts and complete their Wizarding education, Harry counted himself out. Academics had never really been his thing. The only thing he had been decent at in school was flying a broom.

Go back to Potions class? Not exactly Harry's idea of constructively using his time. Harry was born to tackle evil, not Transfiguration essays.

He was not conceited; he was not narcissistic or full of himself. Harry suffered from absolutely no delusions of grandeur or fantasies of heart sweeping, self-righteous worship. Harry Potter was a hero, the _Prophet_ made that clear enough without anyone's aid. Being a savior was Harry's identity and he was forced to accept it on a daily basis. So, instead of running from who as he had during his childhood, Harry set his mind that it was time to embrace it.

The Wizarding World, with all of its problems, after all, needed a hero and Harry only knew a life of service.

Harry never deviated from his destiny as a soldier. As soon as Voldemort had been vanquished, he had thrown himself back into the fight, accepting a job as an Auror of the Ministry.

So, as he sat here, nursing his third glass of firewhiskey, he felt no remorse in denying Kingsley's request.

"No." Harry said plainly, his eyes meeting Shacklebolt's dead on.

"Potter." Kingsley sighed as if the weight of the entire world was pressing on his aching shoulders. His dark eyes, reminding Harry vaguely of Severus Snape's, were normally emotionless and calculative. There was a reason why Kingsley was Head Auror; even though he was a fair humored man with a strong ability to empathize, Kingsley knew how to separate his emotions from his work. He was more than adept at playing the hard-rock, immovable cop.

Yet, Harry could spy the difference between Auror Shacklebolt and Kingsley, the man who had taken him under his wing at the end of the Final Battle. It was thanks to Kingsley that Harry was not falling to pieces account of PTSD. This old Order member had taught him how to be a man: how to live independently and actuate in the workplace as well as the battlefield.

"Harry," Kingsley tried again, his eyes now looking wary. "I know it has been difficult for you. That is precisely why I am pleading you to accept my offer."

Screwing his eyes tight, Harry tipped back the shot glass and let the alcohol burn his throat. "No. Kingsley, look. Honestly, I don't need a vacation. I don't need any time off. I don't know what you've been reading in the papers, but I'm fine, okay? Really."

He truthfully did not know what the problem was. Harry always put his full attention into all of the cases in the Ministry. He put one-hundred percent, undivided effort into his work, no matter what was happening with his home life. This had to be the tenth time in three months that Kingsley attempted to persuade him to take his vacation time.

Waving his hand to the bartender, signaling a refill, he continued, "I've been working as an Auror for six years now, Kingsley and I've never once taken sick-time or holiday. I don't think I need one now."

Harry's eyes, emerald orbs as bright as nature, looked in Kingsley's direction. Harry  
tried his best to give the man a look of reassurance, but Kingsley was hearing none of it.

"Enough." His voice was firm and booming, accent crisper than ever. "Harry, you are one of my best men and it is for this reason that I am relieving you of duties for the next three months—"

Harry's body jerked into perfect posture, his muscles tensing and his hand slamming his glass back onto the bar. "What? Kingsley! No!"

Harry ached to continue, but Kingsley stood, adjusting his robes and throwing a galleon by his half-empty mug. He turned to Harry, his face leaving no room for debate. "We've been through this many times, Harry. Go look in the mirror and tell me you are fine. You are both physically and mentally in need of time for reflection. You may come to collect your paycheck and any personal items at the office tomorrow, anytime previous to three in the afternoon. After that, I don't want to see your face."

Pocketing his wand, Kingsley faced Harry, watching as the young man's expression contorted in disbelief. He placed his hands on the wizard's shoulders and looked at his charge in the eyes with utter sincerity.

"Harry, you haven't been the same since your tangle with Ginny." He spoke softly, his words conveying understanding and sympathy. "I am not punishing you; I am doing you a favor. You forget I know you well by now—you may be able to fool the others and yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You are working yourself to death because you do not want to face your own emotions. Though I appreciate you doubling your caseload, I do not desire to see you fall any farther. Do me a favor, Harry, sort this out and take care of yourself, instead of taking care of others. It is a well-deserved change."

With a shaky breath, Harry knew that he could not put this off any longer. It seemed he was taking time off whether he liked it or not. But, an innate and well-guarded fear bubbled in his chest. He could not stop working—not now. Without his Auror post, his life was useless. He was a waste of space if he could not spend his time in a manner the world could appreciate.

Feeling Kingsley's warm hands slide off of him, he was forced to look up. He tried one last time. "I can't leave now. The ministry needs all the help it can get. This morning, Ralph told me that the missing persons tally has bumped, ten plus. That's a record, Kingsley! Something is brewing out there. Since the war, nothing past a few dark-supporting gangs has terrorized our alleys. And, now this? I can, no, I _need_ to help. I can't just bask on the beach while people are in danger."

His words were laced with honesty. It was not an excuse. Harry truly believed in his work; this is why he embraced his hero status. People needed saving and if he had an abnormal amount of sheer, dumb luck on his side that allowed him to smite crime more easily than the average Joe, then he needed to use it for the greater good.

So what? Ginny left him. There were larger issues in the world. He could not be so selfish as to wallow in misery and abandon his post. He had a duty and an obligation to make this world safer.

Kingsley was already on his way to the exit. "Remember, tomorrow, before three. Don't push the timeframe."

Well, bloody hell.

-#-

Harry stood before the bathroom mirror.

Earlier that day, he had met with Kingsley one last time before his vacation. The man had 'pleasantly' surprised him by handing him a portkey to his vacation destination and by warning him that if he did not leave as scheduled, another three months would be added onto his off-time. This information had sent Harry into a knot of pissed off for the next few hours. He had silently fumed as he apparated to his rented apartment and manually stuffed his essentials into a suitcase, preparing for departure.

Not only was Kingsley kicking him out of the Ministry, but also his home, and, he would find out later, completely out of the Wizarding world and the United Kingdom itself.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

When the portkey dropped him off at the foot of the mountain, he had to clench his fists and count to ten, praying to Merlin for a bit of tolerance and hope.

He walked a half a mile before coming in contact with a Hilton hotel. He eyed the area with a paranoid gaze and stuffed his hand into his runsack, pulling out the packet Kingsley had handed him along with the portkey.

Inside, he found his hotel reservations and moodily checked in, bypassing the elevator in favor of stomping his way up to his room, relishing in the loud sounds produced by his boots against concrete as he muttered to himself all the way along.

It was true. He was acting like a petulant child. But, you try being portkeyed around the world at random without consent and see if you feel as jolly as Saint Nick.

After taking five minutes to figure out how the bloody key card functioned (it had definitely been a while since he had stepped foot in the muggle world), he finally opened the door and tossed his belongings to the floor in a huff.

Now, he eyed his reflection with consideration for the first time since Ginny had told him they needed time apart.

And his anger dissipated. He understood why Kingsley had been so adamant.

The man in the mirror was one that could do with perhaps, a good meal and a nap.

At five-foot eleven, Harry had often felt dwarfed in comparison to his gangly friend, Ron, but he had always counted on the fact that his muscular build made up for lacking stature. His redheaded companion was always stick thin, no matter how much he ate, and though Harry was no body-builder, his lifetime of running for his hide and more recent years of Auror training had settled him with a body he could be proud of. Not bulky, but firm, lithe muscle that showed he was not about to be blown away with the wind.

Harry had never been one for fashion—Dudley's hand-me-downs had made sure from the start that he was simply appreciative of having something to cover himself with. Though he had happily abandoned his cousins clothes years ago, Harry had never gone on a shopping trip. He stuck to wearing the underclothes of the Auror uniform daily, as to eliminate the stress of having to pick out a new outfit in the morning.

His black slacks were clean and form fitting, leaving enough room that he could maneuver as he pleased, and tucked into a pair of simple, yet elegant dragon-hide boots that Charlie and Fleur had given him on a recent birthday. His shirt was plain, V-necked, and short-sleeved, the same color as the rest of his ensemble. If one looked closely, they could see the Auror coat of arms embossed into the end of the sleeves. He knew that the only thing he wore that came with sentimental value was the slightly worn leather jacket he had found in Sirius' old room back in Grimmauld Place. It was something he never left the house without.

He ran his fingers delicately down the jacket's skin, a small smile touching his lips as he felt the zipper. It was a curious little thing with a tiny, dangling skull charm that appeared to have two dull rhinestones for eyes. Harry had often imagined a young, rebellious Sirius Black parading in the sacrilegious muggle fashion with pride, probably drawing attention to little details such as the zipper or the Harley-Davidson stamp on the lining just to make his pureblood family squirm.

Harry watched the smile fall from his lips and took in the shadows lining his round eyes. The bags circled them, echoes of his bad sleeping habits that stood out against his pale complexion. He rubbed his sharp cheekbones and plucked off his glasses, hoping that perhaps, he would look better without them.

Even the now blurry reflection looked tiredly back at him.

Biting his lip, Harry put his glasses down on the sink, leaning against it as he reached up to let his hair loose. Letting the elastic hook around his wrist, he yawned as he ruffled his own black locks, feeling some of the tension in his head release.

He had grown out his hair in tribute to many great wizards before him: Sirius, Snape, Dumbledore, Moody….That and, it was just a positive side effect that as his hair grew out, the rat's nest disappeared, giving way to loose curls whose ends tickled just past his neck when held back and a bit past his shoulders when free. In all sincerity, he had grown his hair out due to necessity. Once it was long enough, Harry had made a trip to Mrs. Weasley for a homemade haircut. He had directed the matron to snip him a fringe that covered his infamous lightning bolt scar. It was a move he never rued, as now he had the luxury of walking in public and, for the most part, not being recognized upon the spot.

Harry coughed and put his glasses back on, his hand rubbing his neck. Another reason why he had kept the lengthened mane: to cover the mysterious etching that had appeared on his skin in what looked like jade colored ink several weeks after the Final Battle. Turns out that even though he had scattered the fabled trinkets, he was still their owner: the Deathly Hallows symbol tattooed on the nape of his neck proved that.

Splashing some cool water onto his face, Harry turned out of the bathroom and returned to the bed. Absentmindedly, he leafed through the packet Kingsley had made, pulling out the papers that he guessed came from a muggle computer printer.

Reservation papers, a portkey travel schedule, a map…Eyebrows furrowing, Harry pulled out the map. What was he, an idiot? He did not even know where he bloody was! What kind of Auror was he?

Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Hm. Lovely. He had already guessed he was in the United States of America after picking up on the accents around him, but Colorado? He eyed the state placement on the map. He certainly had never heard of the place—not that he had heard much of any place at all. The British Wizarding World was quite self-centered, and rightfully so! As it was the capital of the magical world, it's only competition in progress being the French and Bulgarian systems.

Shrugging, he tossed the paper aside when his eyes caught a small envelope with his name on it.

His felt a smirk ride his lips.

He knew Hermione's handwriting anywhere. Trust her to collaborate with his boss to force him to yield to a mental-health vacation. He pulled out the letter inside.

_Harry,_

_If you're reading this, then you made the right decision in granting yourself a vacation. I'm hoping that you made the decision of your freewill, but as we have been friends for too many years to count, I realize that Kingsley most likely had to endure your pigheadedness and fight you into submission. I won't hear a word of complaint! You deserve this vacation, Harry, whether you think so or not. Even Ron can tell that you are in need of a change of scenery. Colorado Springs is a lovely, quaint location. I am positive you will enjoy its beauty and appreciate the many sights to explore. Have fun, Harry, and please, just take some time to spoil yourself for once._

_With love,_

_Hermione_

_PS. I took it upon myself to get you a small gift to get you started in your stay. I hope you will actually go. The event will begin at six, which should give you enough time to find yourself a taxi!_

Harry was stuck between frowning and chuckling. He could see Hermione's mother-henning expression and all as she wrote this letter. He was gifted with such genuine friendships and he felt terrible that he had made Hermione worry. Even though she did not state it outright, Harry could feel her concern vibrating from the parchment.

He had distanced himself from Ron and his wife since Ginny walked out on him. He regretted it now, though he had not done it on purpose. He just had not wanted a reminder of anything Weasley and he knew the Ginny hung around Hermione and Ron's place more often than not. Harry had wanted to avoid confrontation.

Groaning, Harry clucked his tongue and emptied the envelope, watching a thin blue slip wedge out of it. Grasping it close to his eyes, he read the small print.

Ugh!

"Ticket number 2630, admits one adult." Harry tried not to vomit as he read the event's title. "Be on the Offense: Steps to Becoming a Goal-Chaser."

What the bloody hell, Hermione? Really?

Harry squinted his eyes, reading the dreaded font and a feeling of annoyance rippled over him. "Motivational speaking, brought to you by Dick Roman."

It was going to be a long night.

-#-

Harry could have pouted as he stood in the entry line.

Although he yearned to set fire to Hermione's well thought gift, he had not the heart to do so. He imagined it had taken her a long time to effectively research what was happening in Colorado Springs and it had taken both money and unvarnished thoughtfulness to purchase it.

Harry felt obligated to attend. So, now he handed his ticket to a teenager behind a glass window to check it for authenticity. Despite the prayer Harry had that the ticket would fail its test, Harry was buzzed in two seconds later and was directed by smiling body guards to an auditorium bustling with boisterous people.

Tightening his grip on his runsack and reassuring himself that his wand was safe in its holster up his sleeve, Harry sought to calm himself.

He would never admit it, but he disliked being in overly crowded rooms. Even being in the Ministry's main hall bothered him on his way to his office every morning. As a result of his job and experience, he had been molded into an unquestionably on-guard person. Edgy, he liked to say, on his toes. Not paranoid, because he was not mentally unwell, but simply…cautious. When he was younger, Harry had been full of hope, expecting the best of everyone. And though he was not hopeless now, he realized that everything had the potential to turn into an unforeseen, chaotic event.

He jumped when a lady dressed in a red uniform greeted him, asking for his ticket.

He coughed, fighting a flush and smiled tightly at her, handing the paper over. "Er-of course. Sorry."

She grinned at him, glancing at the ticket before picking up a program for him. "B34. A good seat! Follow this aisle straight down, second row from the podium on your right."

He nodded in thanks, retrieving his ticket and program, before somewhat awkwardly shuffling his way to his destination.

He seated himself and his designated seat and fought with himself to get comfortable. The auditorium seats were lined with too-soft red cushions and the rows were placed too close together, barely allowing and foot room. As the crowd started to pile in, Harry squirmed uncomfortably as people invaded his bubble of personal space, bumping into him from all angles to get to where they needed to be.

He trained his attention to the program, only looking up when the lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on an attractive Asian lady. She was dressed in a flattering and professional suit with fashionable shoes. Her cheeks were pinched in what he knew from practice was a forced grin. Harry let his program fall to his lap.

There was something off about her. Something odd that he could not place. He gazed at her long healthy hair, tied up in a clean-cut knot and her meticulously applied makeup. She appeared to be normal, but it was something about her movements that made Harry puzzled. They were a little bit mechanical, just ever-so-slightly, probably undetectable by the untrained human eye. It was almost as if she were unused to her own skin.

His time to study her was cut short as she gave one last cheerful grin and finished her introduction, exiting stage left.

He crossed his ankles as he heard the applause around him and looked expectedly up as a man adorned in a navy suit walked on.

Harry had an instant distaste for him.

It was something about how he carried himself that made Harry reflect on the smug, arrogant attitudes of the many pureblood enthusiasts he had come in contact with during the war. The crooked, yet dazzling grin placed on the man's face did not fool Harry. Even as he spoke his flowered salutation, Harry could detect a git underneath.

"Hello and welcome, my friends! I must admit, I thought I'd see more faces out in the crowd tonight…but, what can we do? A Friday night is a Friday night and all of us have to abide by our work schedules." He paused here with a little, theatrical shrug and close lip grin.

As the crowd laughed around him, Harry wondered if that had been a joke.

Waving a hand, the man continued. "Anywho, though I believe most of you know me, I feel the need to introduce myself as part of standard procedure. My name is Dick Roman, owner of Richard Roman Enterprises, nominated one of the top 35 most powerful men in the United States," the charming grin was back. "Thank you, by the way, America." He winked.

Harry stopped listening. He turned off his hearing momentarily and focused on Roman's face. The same uncomfortable feeling he had experienced with the Asian woman crept upon him once more.

For the next forty minutes, Harry observed Roman, scrutinizing every aspect of his appearance, every mannerism displayed, every lilt of his speech. What bothered him was that he found nothing out of place. He could not pinpoint anything strange or outstanding about the man, other than the fact that he had an incredible amount of personality. Everything about his speech was performance was perfect. He boldly looked out into the crowd, not even bothering to use the written copy of his speech. He gestured at the right moments, speaking as smoothly as a politician, with all of the engaging expressions and encouraging smiles.

Dick Roman seemed like a great motivational speaker. Everything about him screamed power and every look he fed the crowd made you want to listen.

It was a good thing Harry never had a particular penchant for politicians, because if he had been into that scene, he would have immediately noted Roman as a must-have contact. He imagined that if Lucius Malfoy were present, he would buy the man a drink after the show and keep him close at hand.

For a moment, Harry thought that Kingsley was right. Harry needed a vacation from everything because he was starting to see suspects where there were none. He was making things up. Dick Roman was not suspicious: he was just an intelligent muggle who spoke with fluidity and confidence. It was not uncommon.

But, then Harry let his Auror half get the better of him. Usually, his hunches were always correct. It was like he had an extra sense for smelling out the corrupt. Well—actually. He did.

It was his and Kingsley's secret. Around the time his Deathly Hallows symbols had appeared, Harry had been experiencing what he thought was very odd hallucinations. But, he was not. Long story short, along with a pretty brand on his neck, he had attained magic sensitivity. It was an uncommon sense—more like a state of hyperawareness. Those with magic sensitivity had the ability to perceive auras. It was a handy tool considering that he could pinpoint dark wizards like night lights at bedtime. As his ability grew, he learned that every living thing had an aura. Every organism had magic in it as a life source, therefore everything had an aura. Muggles, wizards, creatures, you name it. He could see the difference between dark wizards and light, between wizards and veelas, between muggles and squibs. It was fascinating to say the least.

Luckily, however, as he grew into the sense, he figured out how to tap in and out of it. It had been irritating at first. For two years, he walked around seeing magic around everyone. It was like walking around on drugs. But, thankfully, he had figured out how to cap his ability and use it when he needed it, then turn it off when his eyes hurt. It was a bit like Occlumency, he guessed.

The last time Harry had used his magic sensitivity was six months ago when he and the division one Aurors had set out to find a polyjuiced ex-Death Eater on the run. Since then, none of his cases had called for his ability.

Yet, as he sat here in the darkened auditorium, he tapped into his well. That was when he saw it. Something was _definitely_ not right about Dick Roman. His aura was not even close to a muggle's aura.

Harry crumpled the program in his hand, his fists and palms sweaty as his body jumped to alertness. He had to restrain himself from whipping out his wand.

Focus, Harry. Think rationally. Not a muggle. So, what?

The aura was not one of a wizard, so Harry guessed creature. Not that this narrowed his list down. The number of creatures that existed in the world surpassed the thousands, both known and unknown. The only thing that Harry could be sure about was that Dick Roman was not something he had come in contact with before. He knew the auras of dragons, veelas, werewolves, boggarts, dementors, metamorphagi…

This was new.

He felt epinephrine charge and race through his veins. His body was ready to attack if needed. There was something incredibly dark about Roman's aura. Darker than a vampire's aura. It was not good news.

Maybe some freaky American hybrid?

Some mixed, crossbred experiment creature?

Intermission did not come fast enough. As soon as Dick Roman left the stage, Harry shot to his feet and pushed his way to the aisle. He needed a bathroom break, some fresh air, water, something.

He would have raced out of the auditorium like a Firebolt gone wild, that is, if he did not come face to face with what had to be a menacing looking dog.

Harry froze, looking at it in a curious mix of awe, horror, and confusion.

That dog, covered in matted black fur with large fangs was at least five foot five inches. Harry chance a quick second to look away from the animal, looking around him. Everyone was chatting, blissfully unaware of the gruffing monster seated at the end of row J.

Someone behind him cursed at him to move 'the fuck' along.

Were these people daft? Did the muggles not see this bloody monstrosity?

Finally, a heavy set woman shoved him to the side and walked purposefully around him. Behind her, the line followed, not looking pleasant at being stopped mid-stride.

Harry deflated a bit. Touching his wand, he pulled himself into a state of consideration. Obviously, the dog would not have made it passed security if it was visible to the muggles' eyes. So, it was evident that it was in fact, invisible. He eyed it warily.

What would bring an invisible dog to a motivational speaking event? A wizard with daddy issues?

Harry snorted. Invisible or not, it was a fierce looking dog, almost gruesome. Harry shuddered as he eyed its claws. A death machine without a leash. But, who's?

It was only then that Harry realized as he had watched the dog, he had been watched himself, by a third party. A man dressed in a perfectly tailored, expensive looking black suit with cropped dark hair and light blue eyes was regarding him with an expression akin to disbelief.

Their eyes met and Harry forgot about the dog as a whirl of wispy ebony smoke appeared around the man, caressing him like a blanket.

And Harry began to wonder if there was anything human about Colorado Springs.

-#-

When the motivational torture was finally over with, Harry felt dead on his feet. For the first time in ages, he truly felt exhausted. And being in a room with three questionable human look-a-likes and a mangy Grim was not assuaging him.

As he got lost in the crowd and approached the exit into the main hall, Harry's index finger fiddled with a curl near the front of his face. He wanted desperately to jet out of there, but he was Harry James Potter, after all. What kind of reckless hero Gryffindor would he be if he did not take a peek at the goods?

Roman was holding a book signing near the exit. So, Harry put on his game face and hurried to get in line. He had to see this thing's aura up close, without the glare of the spotlight beaming on it.

By the time he had gotten to the front, he had finished singing six new Weird Sisters songs. As soon the super fan in front of him departed tearfully, Harry felt the tension saddle in his gut. He slipped forward, trying to look at ease and held the book out.

Dick reached for it without looking, readying his sharpie to write in a flourish.

"And to whom am I making this out to?" his voice was smooth and pleasant.

Harry forced a smile, though Roman could not see it. Think fast!

"Ronald." He said softly, trying to put a smidgen of eagerness in his own tone.

As Dick Roman began signing, Harry quickly tapped into his sensitivity and eyed the aura with hidden befuddlement. He repressed the urge to make an ill groan. Not only was Roman's aura created of completely dark energy, but there was something about the weight of it that threw Harry off balance. Whereas most auras were airy, Roman's felt thick and weighted, like sludge. Harry could almost feel it oozing like a puss filled infection.

There was almost something viral about it.

Then Dick turned his head up, handing him the book with that trademark smile. His eyes glinted and with his ability still switched on, Harry could have sworn that given the chance stare long enough, he would have seen the man's core. But, he did not dare stay any longer. Auror training 101, never face an opponent dead on until you are as fully informed as can be.

So, Harry squeaked out a thanks and skipped away, not stopping until he was out of the doors and into the streets.

A block away, Harry took in the crisp, cool night air, letting it pierce his lungs and give him a sense of awakening. Taking out his wallet, he pulled out enough money for a bus. He could have walked, but he did not want to give himself an excuse to go back to trail Roman.

It's a vacation, Harry. Hermione and Kingsley sent you here to relax, not work!

He ignored himself. The bloody hell he was going to enjoy a pool day while three dark creatures had appeared in the same place and the same time-scratch that. Even more uncanny: in the same room at the same time.

Harry would have spent the next twenty minutes justifying this to himself if given the chance. It was only the low growl behind him that shut him up.

He swiveled, eyes falling on the Grim he had spied before. Harry readied himself, preparing to make a sudden movement if necessary.

The man in the black suit stepped forward, a chastising, but playful purse on his lips. "Now, now. Heel, boy!" He snapped his fingers and the dog dropped into a submissive stance.

Harry's head flickered to the man's direction, bypassing his eyes and looking at the inkiness wafting around him, mildly allowing himself to be surprised at the sound of a familiar British accent.

"Sorry 'bout that. The darling gets excited when anyone gives him attention." The man hummed, taking a step closer to Harry, his expression morphing from teasing to an intense curiosity. With one of his eyebrows cocked, he tilted his head and slipped his hands into his pockets. "You see, most people walk through him as if he weren't even there."

Harry took a defensive step back, his emerald eyes narrowing at the way the man's melodious voice dropped a pitch and his position shifted. British, a wizard? Not possible from the aura. But, reaching into his pocket, a wand, perhaps? A knife? What?

A long second passed between the two and Harry felt the man's eyes rake up and down his body as if he were a diamond in a coal pit.

The man took another daring step forward, eyes flaring with unbridled interest. "And what's your name, love?"

* * *

_A/N: Hey, if you haven't read the AN at the top of the page, do so now or forever hold your piece. THIS IS MY FIRST CROSSOVER :)! Haha. Okay, anyway. Stay tuned and leave a review, por favor. _

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_review? kthanks_


	2. Chapter One

**A/N:Disclaimer, warnings, plot changes...all stand true and are located in the Prologue. I own nothing. **

_Recap:_

_Harry took a defensive step back, his emerald eyes narrowing at the way the man's melodious voice dropped a pitch and his position shifted. British, a wizard? Not possible from the aura. But, reaching into his pocket, a wand, perhaps? A knife? What?_

_A long second passed between the two and Harry felt the man's eyes rake up and down his body as if he were a diamond in a coal pit._

_The man took another daring step forward, eyes flaring with unbridled interest. "And what's your name, love?"_

* * *

_**Cheat Sheet**_

Chapter One

* * *

Crowley was a collector, of sorts.

He had a penchant for unique and useful items and, as the King of Hell, a title that constantly needed to be reasserted, he made it his aspiration to seek out and store anything and everything that could be added to his collection.

Crowley was not stupid. No.

Lilith? _She_ had been stupid. A bloody, raving imbecile. A starking mad fool, if you asked him.

Crowley, on the other hand, was a man of keen intelligence and logic: a proper business man and a worker who believed in self-preservation. He was able to see situations from all perspectives and consider all solutions and consequences before he made an accord. The low status demons in hell? They were weak: they liked to have fun, party, make a mess of things, and screw with anything that came in their path. This is why they remained at the bottom of the totem pole.

See, to be a leader, to be powerful, one had to control their primal urges, an ability that most souls lost by the time they transformed into demonic entities. But, not Crowley. Crowley could be devilishly composed, no pun intended, and it was that talent that allowed him to walk the human realm and see not just playthings or chess pawns, but potential allies.

Take the Winchesters, for example.

If he really wanted to have them offed, he could snap his fingers and send in an army of mindless demons to slit their throats. But, why smite something so valuable?

Everything in life, and death, was a deal, no matter how you saw it. And the more deals you made, the more tricks you had up your sleeve.

Crowley, ex-King of the Crossroads, was good at making deals. After all, he was the only demon in Hell that had hunters at his beck and call. Though the brothers would love to deny it, he had them whipped.

When Crowley sniffed out a potential gem, he was like a toddler watching an infomercial. He _had_ to obtain the new toy, at any given price, and he was willing to do a week's worth of chores on good behavior to get what he wanted.

It had been by chance that this little human had wriggled into his path. Nonetheless, from the moment he laid eyes on him, he knew there was something special about him. Definitely, an Easter egg with candy inside. He had to be a lottery ticket with matching numbers. It was only when the boy froze in front of him that he knew he had to snatch him up before anyone else did.

This human could see his hell hound.

Not feel its rotting breath, or hear its paws as those whom had made a crossroads deal did at the time of their death, but he could see the entire dog.

As he watched the human gawk at his favorite pet, he realized that the kid was seeing the whole picture, as clear as day. So, Crowley's attention was peeled away from the Dick on stage and his eyes were glued to a head of raven curls. He followed him.

Now, as he approached him, waiting for his reply, Crowley felt a sheer explosion of excitement. The kid was not a meat-suit. There was no demon underneath. There was not contract engraved into his skin, he never bargained his soul.

Crowley licked his lips almost hungrily.

A human that could see hell hounds. Why?

He watched as the startling green eyes found his own, glancing between the hell hound and its owner.

One of Azaezal's old projects?

He cleared his throat, "He's a bit impossible to miss."

The voice was soft, with a forced lightness to the tone. Crowley watched, engaged, as the boy stayed in a ready position, as if he would sprint at any moment if need be.

Crowley let a small chuckle, taking in the English accent. A foreigner. Interesting. So, not one of Azaezal's, seeing as the Yellow-Eyed Demon had condensed his selection to North America. "Oh? And why is that?" He ignored his bypassed inquiry. No matter for the moment.

The emerald eyes narrowed and the boy swallowed, stepping back to put more distance in between them. "Well, he's quite…large."

Crowley's grin could put clowns out of business. This human was looking his hell hound straight in the eye. What a phenomenon! "Yes, well, he eats his veggies."

The King of Hell watched as his interest flickered his eyes to the street, where a public transportation bus was pulling away from the sidewalk and back into the busy highway. The human cursed under his breath and Crowley immediately jumped in.

"Oo—not late for a very important date, are we?" he fake grimaced, "That was the last bus on schedule, lad." He nodded, "Were you needing to be somewhere?"

The boy straightened, turning his attention back to Crowley. "No—," his eyes shadowed with distrust, "Um. Well, sort of."

"You sound a tad new to these parts, perhaps, I can get you to where you need to be?' Crowley offered innocently, putting on his best 'trust me' face.

The bait was not received warmly. He saw the man's face close off immediately as he adopted a cold, but polite exterior. Crowley eyed the aristocratically carved face and pale skin: the bone structure was symmetrical and pleasing, but indeed not one of a creature.

"No, thank you. I'll just be on my way, it's getting late. Have a good night, sir."

Crowley did not race after him as the green eyed human took off in a power walk down the concrete. Instead, he snapped his fingers and a couple leaving the café behind him dropped their coffees. He turned to them, smirking as they stepped forward, eyes flashing black.

He raised his eyebrows. "Hope the coffee break was peachy, folks. But, now that you're finished dawdling, I have an assignment that requires your utmost attention." His light eyes followed the figure racing across the crosswalk before turning back to his minions.

"Your utmost, undivided attention, kiddies."

The world was full of curious things.

-#-

The first thing Harry did when he returned to the hotel was throw himself into the room's desk and empty his rucksack before him.

Ron and Ginny had often made fun of his 'man-purse,' but since leaving Hogwarts, Harry realized there were certain things that he could benefit from carrying on his person, especially since he was a magnet for catastrophe. He never went anywhere without the backpack glued to his shoulder.

Magic was a beautiful thing. It allowed him to keep as many items as he wanted in his bag without it ever weighing more than a feather or bulging from being over-packed. Hermione had gotten him the bag a few years ago, fully equipping it with useful books on defense, creatures, and the nature of magic that she had deemed necessary given his job description. To be honest, Harry had only used some of the books twice as he was not much of a reader, but they were present just in case. Being an Auror came with some nifty things besides a wicked title. An emergency potions set and kit, with three doses of all potions mundane to those bordering illegal, was one of them. He knew that beside the potions was a silver knife, a second wand of standard elm, his shrunken Firebolt, his Gringotts key, invisibility cloak, and photo album. And of course, above that all, copies of all of his Ministry cases to date.

He reviewed everything he owned that had any relation to creature activity in the Western Hemisphere; succumbing to sleep at three in the morning….and came up with nothing out of the ordinary.

The Americas were home to different types of magic. Besides the organized alleys in Salem, Massachusetts and Willows, California, there was not much here in regards to Wizarding society. But, that did not mean that the USA was untouched by magic. The US was where many squibs had settled, after escaping civilized magical society. Back in the day, squibs had come to the Unites States, establishing French voodoo and English Wiccan cults in the south. In the late 1500s, previous to the establishment of Jamestown, Virginia and the formal colonization of the new world, the Russian Wizarding Union had been exiling creatures into the west of the unfounded country, near Nevada. It was rumored that the Russian and French ministries had been battling to discover cures for lycanthropy, vampirism, and other magical viruses: all of their failed attempts had been dumped across the world—out of sight, out of mind.

That being said, there was a good chance that over the years, these creatures had evolved and morphed into things unseen in Europe. After all, the ministries rarely kept tab on magical signature counts in the West, especially considering that their recent wars with Grindelwald and Voldemort had kept them beyond busy.

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples, feeling the oncoming headache boil between his ears.

He had half a mind to send Prongs to Kingsley, but without sufficient evidence that these creatures were posing a danger to the human or magical population, his report would be stamped insignificant. He could see himself explaining this to Kingsley's exasperated face now.

He snorted. "Yeah, Auror Shacklebolt. I spy dark creatures in America. I swear, they're totally dangerous…one's a motivational speaker…"

Yeah, that would go on well.

Harry rolled his eyes and packed his bag.

He needed some air. Maybe now would be a good time to try the American version of fish and chips.

-#-

Five days later, Harry found himself seated at a lovely little café in Manitou Springs. Hermione had been correct, he certainly enjoyed the beauty that Colorado had to offer.

There was something incredibly majestic and soothing about the mountainous terrain and the clean, sharp oxygen.

Manitou Springs was an adorable area that reminded Harry a bit of Diagon Alley. It was full of people of all ages, lined with shops and restaurants. Everything seemed to be original: blown glass shops, vegan cafés, antique stores. It had a bubbly personality that Harry's inner stress took a liking to.

As he sat in a small coffee bar called the OrganiCore, he sipped on the daily special which happened to be a mixture of dark roast, Ethiopian coffee and lemongrass tea. Harry had never had a taste for coffee, and he barely knew what a latte was, but at the moment he appreciated its richness and strong caffeine.

Though he was on vacation, his insomnia had not let up. He guessed returning back to an average sleeping schedule would be a lot like weaning off of heroine. Little bits at a time, not cold turkey. He had yet to sleep full nights, but so far had managed a handful of hours at a time. It was progress.

After his off-putting encounter with a mysterious man and his pup, Harry had tried to remind himself that he was indeed, on vacation. Kingsley had strictly forbid him to indulge in work of any kind. So, he compromised with himself: he would only go after the creepy duo if they popped into his path again. He would not go chase them.

It was a crappy compromise, anyway. Who was he kidding? It was a day and half later when he noticed two people were following him.

Harry labeled them in the same league as the dog man, considering they shared the same wispy aura, though at a smaller scale. Perhaps, lower ranks.

But, what was the motivation? Why were these things trailing him?

Harry sipped on his coffee-tea combo, surreptitiously glancing in his stalkers' direction. They were not brilliant at being undercover, he surmised, considering that whenever he was supposedly not looking their way, they stared right at him. That, and they had not changed clothes since he first saw them.

Peculiar.

It was a woman, possibly in her late twenties, dressed casually in sweatpants and an orange tank top. Her straight, chestnut hair fell down her shoulders prettily and her face had barely a hint of makeup. The man at her side with a blond buzz cut was dressed similarly in athletic wear, as if the two were planning to spend some quality time on a jog. Day or night, wind or light rain, they had not put on a jacket or reacted to the weather.

Harry sighed, leaving his pay beside his half empty cup and set out for a walk.

They did not seem to be trying to attack him. They were just following him mindlessly. Harry let his guard down slightly. Even if they changed their mind or receive some demented command, they would think twice before assaulting him in broad daylight.

Harry walked out of OrganiCore and let himself drift past some shops, walking rather aimlessly. He passed a church on a corner, with its doors wide open, showing an afternoon mass to the all of the teenagers skateboarding around the parking lot beside it.

Harry perked up, seeing the blown glass shop again. Making up his mind, he decided to see if he could pick up something for Hermione as a thank you.

As he entered the shop, he saw the two goons look at each other from the corner of his eye. They did not enter with him, so Harry felt his shoulder untense for the next thirty five minutes.

-#-

"Sammy."

Sam furrowed his brow as he scanned the newspaper, ignoring Dean's demanding tone. He had just spent an entire night in a bar thanks to his loving big brother. Being subjected to endless hours of a cigarette smoke hazed atmosphere and the loud growls of gamblers made him mentally spent. Shady bars was not his scene; they did not help him let off steam like they did for Dean. They just made his sinuses ache and the taste of his beer unpleasant.

He heard Dean shuffling in the fast food bag. "Sammy? Did you get the pie?"

Intent not to reply, Sam adjusted his flannel shirt and turned to the next page, attempting to focus his little energy on spotting something out of line in the news.

Dean scoffed. "Uh, Sam? Hello! C'mon, man, you can't still be mad at me! That was hours ago!...Sammy…"

Sam's favorite part of their bar adventure was when Dean left in the Impala with a big breasted, feisty looking redhead, for the rest of the night. Abandoning Sam without a ride.

Really. By now, he knew his brother inside and out. He understood that Dean could not suppress his charm or say no to any sexual offer being made. Sam did not care if his brother slept with every bar chick in North Dakota—he certainly did not agree with his behavior, but he never objected it. As long as he kept Sam out of it. That's exactly what he told Dean last night.

And then, Dean had done exactly what he suggested. He left Sam out of it.

Or, more accurately, he left Sam at the bar.

Sam had had two choices last night. He had no money for a taxi or bus, because Dean had snatched the rest of his bills for poker. So, he could have caught a ride with the curly haired, lazy eyed bartender giving him seductive euphemisms, or he could walk. Sam had walked. And then it had rained.

"Sammy. Hey, come on. Look at me at least." Dean whined, his voice low and pleading.

Sam sighed harshly, peeking over the black and white newsprint. "What, Dean?" he gritted out.

Dean's hazel green eyes looked at him, his mouth open as he shrugged somewhat apologetically. "I didn't mean to leave you last night, Sammy. I thought that's what you wanted!"

It was Sam's turn to scoff. "You thought I wanted to be deserted in a bar with no means of transportation?"

Dean had the decency to look vaguely sheepish. "I dunno. Maybe you wanted to get it on with that bartender with the goo-goo eyes, eh?" His hands came up in a vulgar gesture.

Sam did not look impressed. "She was like, forty, Dean."

Dean's eyebrows jumped and he gave a sinuous leer. "You know what they say: age goes along with experience. M-I-L-F, Sammy boy, there could have been a beast inside of her just waiting to rip out, if you know what I mean."

Sam snorted and went back to the paper. "Yeah, well. I didn't want to stick around to find out."

He heard Dean chuckle, "Your loss, man." He stuffed the burger into his mouth. "So, you get the pie?"

Sam's eyes widened as he picked up a headline that definitely sounded like their type of business.

"Hey! Sammy! Listen to me, will you?"

Finally, Sam looked up, his hair falling into his eyes as he turned the newspaper around, shoving it in his brother's face, hoping for just a minute that he would be able to focus on something other than food.

"Priest Starts Speaking In Tongues Mid-Mass." He stated, smug that he had found them a job so quickly.

Dean chewed another bite of his burger. He shrugged. "Isn't that part of some church's…ya know, flow? They're always taking shit."

"It's a sign of demonic possession, Dean." Sam deadpanned. "Look," he pulled the paper back to his own face. "It says: 'In the middle of the afternoon mass, Father Cohen drops to the floor, unable to complete his Hail Mary. With his body thrusting and jerking, police guess a seizure brought on from age was his ailment, however, religious spectators recall him babbling in tongues and suspect his breakdown to be of the spiritual nature.'"

Dean looked unconvinced. "Could have been anything, Sam. Seizure, heart attack. Especially if it was an old dude."

Sam stood, confiscating the burger from his brother and replacing it with the article, ignoring his cry of protest. "Second paragraph. One witness reports seeing Father Cohen's eyes 'flash as black as the pits of hell.' Sounds like a demon case to me."

Dean shoved the article out of his face, but huffed in consideration. "Give me back my burger."

Sam, using his impressive height to his advantage, held the grease ball out of reach. "Dean. Focus. It sounds like we should check it out."

Dean gave a frustrated sigh. "Okay, okay! Dude, now give me back my food!"

"Only if you ease up on the macho, Dean. Really, try to think about more than your gut. We have a possible supernatural case and all you can think about if your lunch."

Dean stilled and threw his hands up in surrender. "Okay, sorry, Samantha. Geez, okay. Look, let's check it out. If the chick's right about the whole black eyes thing, then we need to be there to kick some demon butt, yeah?"

Satisfied, Sam returned the hamburger back to his brother, watching in faint nausea as Dean practically shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

"Hey, did you get the pie?"

"No, Dean. I didn't get the pie. It wasn't even real pie. The Burger sells pocket pie. It's basically a pound of sugar and corn syrup stuffed into a hand-sized crust. I doubt it was a vital part of your diet."

Dean, sensing Sam's moodiness meter go off the roof, wisely did not complain. "So, where are we headed to?" he said around a chunk of lettuce and fried onion.

"Manitou Springs."

* * *

_A/N: Hey, wow! I was amazed by the alert/fav/c2/review count. Thanks so much, guys, I hope you're enjoying it! (: Let me know how you're feeling the fic!_

_update: voting closed. Sam/Harry will fit this tale better, so that will be the pairing. For those who adore Cr/H (like me), keep posted and I will have another story up with more suitable circumstances! Cheers. _

_you_

_should_

_totally_

_review. kthanks._


	3. Chapter Two

_A/N: All disclaimers, warnings, plot changes, etc. are located in chapter one (prologue) and continue to hold truth...I own nothing. For those who didn't see: pairing is officially Sam/Harry. Thanks for all the love so far!_

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet_**

Chapter Two

* * *

It had taken about fourteen hours, including bathroom breaks and fast food stops, to get from North Dakota to Manitou Springs. As the hours increased, even ACDC blasting out the roof could not keep Dean awake. As soon as they passed the sign that indicating they were by Pueblo, they pulled off to the side of the road for a two hour nap before hopping back to drive the rest of the way into the Springs.

It was not long before the brothers located a motel and checked in, then crashed like logs.

Sam had woken up first, to the snores of Dean in the bed across from him. Knowing that he would be unable to return to the wonderful world of slumber, he carefully got up and changed in the bathroom.

After a quick shower, Sam tiptoed out of the room with his laptop in hand, heading down to the motel's lounge to access the internet. It was about time he looked into their newest case. His researching only lasted a few minutes thanks to his practiced hand: internet surfing for supernatural evidence was now second nature to him. He automatically checked the weather recently in Manitou Springs, nodding positively when he found deviations. They definitely corresponded with demonic presences, but just slightly. There were possibly a good half a dozen demons walking around, but most certainly not an army.

The hunt should go easy enough.

He easily hacked the data records for Manitou Springs and the surrounding area, searching for anything noteworthy. Nothing too suspicious had occurred, other than a fluctuation of electricity about a week ago that blacked out Colorado Springs and a small part of Manitou Springs for 0.346 seconds.

Such a small power surge was odd, but it did not strike Sam as profound, considering the strong winds associated with Colorado's type of terrain.

Feeling a yawn pull at his lips, Sam reached toward the ceiling in a stretch, unknotting his shoulders, which were still cramped from sleeping in the awkward curled position he fell into ben in. Motels were home by now, but from his brief stay at Stanford, where he had gotten a taste of the normal life, he could tell that the mattresses were cheap and hard, uncomfortable and bad for Dean's mild scoliosis.

It was amazing how being in a sitting position for over a half a day then sleeping for eight hours could make one so exhausted. He could really use some caffeine to spike his senses….a little pick-me-up to jolt him into the swing of things. It sounded desirable enough.

Eyes wandering to the watery coffee in a boiler at the spread of packaged crackers and fruit, Sam winced. Something a little stronger, maybe.

He stood, packing away his laptop. He would grab some coffee from a local café, one for him and one for Dean, who he guessed would be waking in the next hour. At least, that is what he prayed. The sooner they got this show on the road, the sooner they could move on to another case.

-#-

Harry sat in OrganiCore once again. It was now his go-to place every morning. Although the breakfast options at the Hilton were gracious, he ceased being a morning-eater when he left Hogwarts.

A cup of tea, and if he felt up to it, a pastry to satisfy his sweet tooth, was all he needed. And since tea was utter rubbish in the States, his morning regimen now consisted of the coffee special of the day.

Since he was an easy going bloke, it worked.

Harry had now been staying in Colorado Springs for a week and he was slowly starting to get to know how way around. He knew what trolley to take at what time to get to Manitou Springs, his decidedly favorite hot spot, and which shops he would was going to force himself to go into each day. Harry decided vacation equaled getting some souvenirs, and he discovered with great joy that knickknack shops were not nearly as tortuous or intimidating as clothing shops.

In the morning, Manitou Springs was not bustling as much as it did by two in the afternoon. It was calmer, though still full of people. Harry, as a result of recent events, let his magic sensitivity leak free for most of the day, running on low. He could detect his stalkers in the corner of the coffee bar, but knew by now, they would not do anything.

It was sort of odd. Having stalkers that did not hex you into oblivion at first sight.

He sipped on his mug. Peruvian coffee, infused with one-hundred percent cacao beans and a hint of cane sugar.

He bit his lip, letting the warm liquid soothe his throat and ensnare his senses.

What was he going to do today?

He had successfully bought Hermione and Ron gifts from the blown glass shop. For Hermione, a flower vase made with spiraling stands of purple and peach, two colors that he knew were the theme in the Granger-Weasley's living room. For Ron, a mug unknowingly set with a pattern of Chudley Cannon colors. It had taken him two forty minute trips to the store just to pick them out. After all, to repeat, Harry the shopper had never been his nickname.

In fact, for the most part, Ginny had always done the shopping.

He felt like he swallowed a lemon.

"New thoughts, Harry. You need new thoughts. History is history, time to get a crumpet and move along." He told himself in a faux giddy tone, not really caring that a women next to him at the coffee bar looked at him in annoyance before continuing to read her book. If she wanted to read a book in silence, maybe she should go to a library and not a coffee shop.

Feeling the spark of irritation, Harry quickly calmed himself. The lack of sleep was making him irritable. He knew he could try gobbling up a Sleeping Draught, but the potion reminded him too much of the war days, when visions of Voldemort's private life littered his dreamscape like the bubonic plague. He would only use it as a last-last resort.

Swallowing the rest of his coffee-cacao hybrid concoction, he rose, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder and jogged for the door. Maybe he could check out that Native American shop down the street and buy a dream catcher for when his body decided to sleep.

Pushing around the tables, he opened the door and walked head first into a human blockade.

-#-

Sam coughed as the wind was knocked out of him, his lungs deflating by some mysterious impetus. As he took a gasp of oxygen, he felt a sense of horror calibrate his veins as simultaneously, the grip of his fingers supporting his laptop began to slack.

But, before he could curse it all to hell, two dexterous hands whipped out like lightning in a flash, catching his most precious belonging mid-fall with impressive accuracy.

Startled, he looked down at the head of curls that bounced off his chest with a shocked squeak. His eyes fell upon a blushing face.

"I'm so sorry!"

Sam blinked at the accent. It was not every day you saw a Brit in Colorado. Most vacationers stuck towards the amenities of the coasts. Luminous green eyes peered at him from behind rounded glasses.

The man handed him his laptop, looking as embarrassed as the day is long.

"Really," he began again, adjusting his own knapsack that had fallen to the crook of his elbow. "I absolutely apologize!"

Sam watched in a daze of confusion at the randomness of the situation as the man suddenly dropped to the floor and snatched something up from by his toes.

He held out an 'n' key in his right palm, offering it to Sam and at the same time looking at it as if it were the Devil. "Merlin!"

The curse was so soft that Sam ears strained to hear it.

"Did I do that? Shit. I'm sorry. I—"

Sam felt a laugh bubble in his chest and he felt unable to stop an amused smile from creeping onto his lips. Reaching out, he opened his hand to receive the button. "No, no," he reassured the man, "Honestly, you didn't break it. It's been popping out of my keyboard for the past two weeks. I thought tape would do the trick, but…evidently not."

Sam looked at his accidental tackler, feeling an odd sense of intrigue. Without his permission, his eyes took in the man's appearance with curiosity. The loose curls and bangs, longer than Sam's locks and far deeper in color, that fell to frame his oval shaped face, engraved with high cheekbones and a strong chin.

The man kept his eyes averted, looking remorsefully at the laptop despite Sam's confession. "Er-still, I mean, if I hadn't walked into you, you might not have dropped it, and that piece of tape would've held."

Sam eyed the man, his gazing falling over the straight nose and soft bottom lip that was now help captive by the man's worrying teeth. He had to be around his age, but the way he blushed and fidgeted uncomfortably made him almost appear younger. He felt himself smile again, not even feeling in the slight bit remorseful as the shorter man shifted uneasily like a kid that had just broke his mother's million dollar duck figurine. There was something funny about it...funny? No that was not the right word; apologies were never funny.

"Look, it's really no big deal." He tried to console, "Don't worry about it, I just need to pick up some more tape."

Pushing his curls behind his ears, the man glanced up at him with a tiny smirk. "I still feel a bit guilty." Stepping to the side so Sam could actually move into the café, he gave a little shrug. "I don't have any tape to spare, but, uh, how about a cup of coffee?"

His offer seemed genuine and without waiting for a reply, the shorter man waved a waitress at the bar over.

-#-

Ginny used to tell Harry on a daily basis that he blamed himself too much.

Harry could not help it. It must have been etched in his DNA or something, because whenever he felt himself to be the cause of something, the guilt would eat at him until he tried to make amends. And even then, the ghost of fault stuck with him. It must have been life with the Dursleys that made him this way.

It was true. Running into someone and making them break their laptop was not a crime, but the fact that he had been the cause of it made Harry uneasy. Just like the time when Ron had gobbled down chocolate cauldrons full of Romilda Vane's love potion that had been meant for him. He had not planned any of this, but it happened anyway, making him feel responsible.

If it was flawed logic, he shrugged it off. Sometimes you just could not stop the way your brain functioned.

Anyway, the least he could do was buy the bloke a 'cup of joe.' It was a cheap, yet sufficient apology.

Tatiana, the waitress that had been faithfully catering to him every morning since his arrival, stopped in front of him with a friendly, easy going smile.

"Thought you had your cup, already." She teased lightly, her strawberry bob bouncing as her painted pink lips stretched. She was an actress-to-be, she had told him the day she served him his first OrganiCore coffee. Harry had a feeling that an unhealthy percentage of waitresses in these parts were struggling super stars, but there was something about Tatiana's personality that made likable and Harry had a feeling she would succeed. Maybe it was the fact that she did not carry on about her auditions and photo shoots each time she served.

Harry shook his head, turning away from the man he had pummeled into to face her, looking at her dark brown eyes. "Yeah, but my…friend, not so much."

He rubbed the back of his neck, picking up his hair for a brief moment before letting it fall down. A slightly embarassed gesture he never grew out of.

Tatiana nodded, looking expectantly over his shoulder. "And, what'll you have, sir?"

"Oh, uhhh…" came the soft voice. "A coffee, I guess, please." Harry marveled at its politeness. Most people ordered in a commanding tone.

Tatiana nodded, pulling out her check slips as she recited the menu. "Dark roast, Peruvian blend, Guatemalan white, blonde roast, Ethiopian, or French vanilla?'

Harry finally turned to view his charge, finally allowing himself to appreciate the fact that he really had to look _up_ to see him well. He was an incredible sight. Probably the most massive man he had met that was not a half or full blooded giant. This muggle, he thought to himself, was either on steroids or there was definitely something in the McDonald's chicken. He mentally crossed fast-food taste testing off his to do list.

Harry flicked his fringe out of the way. Totally taller than Ron.

He felt his Auror instincts pop in, taking in the whole picture. Caucasion male, approximately six feet, four inches, light brown eyes, long honey colored hair, sharp bone structure. Dressed in a blue flannel shirt and blue jeans that frayed at the ends, falling around a pair of beat up sneakers. Laptop case hanging off of his shoulder and the actual device in his hand.

Harry took in the tiredness written on his face. It did not deter him from recognizing the attractiveness of the man, but it drew some conclusions as usual.

Maybe a college student who had a late party night rushing in to finish his essay due in three hours? It was a practical guess, but the man did not appear to squint or wince due to the light sensitivity left behind from drug usage and alcohol. Okay, maybe not a partier. Harry took into consideration the muscular build. Perhaps, not a student, not unless he was heavily involved in sports or weight training.

He hummed.

Despite his towering height and bulging muscle, the man's face was soft with doe eyes and a light-hearted, genuine smile. Yet, the tenseness in his body told Harry that he was not a carefree bumblebee.

"Um." His forehead wrinkled. "Dark roast."

Snap out of it, Potter! Damn, he wished he could turn off his Auror habits, but Harry knew his work was his life. It had always been. As much as he thought it would be dandy to walk out into the streets one day without stopping to analyze the nearest person or meditate on scenarios in which his day could go wrong, it was not going to happen. Fighting crime? A way of life, not just something for pay: it molds you into a specific type of person.

Tatiana nodded again, continuing. "Decaf, latte, expresso, or cappuccino?"

Harry watched in slight amusement as the youth's' eyes widened at the variety of choices.

The man shifted his weight on either foot. "Uh, regular?"

Tatiana's eyes looked up at him expectantly. "Would you like to add a shot of wheatgrass, soy protein, acai berry, lemon concentrate, whole cane sugar, goat milk, cinnamon extract, or extra caffeine to that for thirty-five cents per serving, sir?

The man gaped, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, before he shook his head fiercely. "Uh-no. That's fine, thanks."

With a confirmation of the order, Tatiana informed them that the coffee would be out in a jiffy. Harry handed her a five dollar bill and then she skipped out of sight.

Looking down at him, the man with puppy dog eyes regarded him quickly, his hand reaching into his own pocket, presumably for his wallet. "You really didn't have to do that. Let me pay you back."

Harry shook his head negatively, already turning to leave, feeling satisfied that he had eased the ache from popping the man's 'n' key from his personal computer. Debt paid, fulfilled. He was glad to show a little courtesy.

"It's on me, mate. Sorry for running into you."

-#-

It was lamentable, truly.

His day had started off so well, with the best cup of coffee he had since his arrival. And as soon as he finished his helping, his day had gone downhill from there.

What could possibly be worse than smashing into a stranger like a gawky teenager, then knocking out his keyboards buttons?

You guess right!

One Ginevra Weasley look-a-like making passes at him for exactly one hour straight.

When Harry had ventured into the Native American Talisman shop, he had been ready to weave his way through animal skin and feathers. He thought maybe he would buy something for Teddy, his godson, but instead, he made came in contact with his ex-wife's American doppelganger.

He would have been able to successfully ignore her existence if she had not come up to him and insist to show him object up for sale in the shop. She pointed every little bead and threading on the products. In reality, Harry believed she would be an ace at sales, if she had not tried to slip him a flirtatious phrase after every description.

"—and this is one of the most sacred relics of Native American ruins. It was believed by the Native Americans that to conquer evil, you must contain it, rather than ward it off because banishing it is only temporary. True power comes from ownership."

Harry was not even listening. He could only watch in disbelief as the woman's amber eyes settled on his crotch, her fingers, once showcasing the talisman delicately, were now petting it heavily in some sick, crude gesture.

He had never realized how forward American women were.

Harry bit his lip and looked at the clock. He had been in here way too long and he had an inkling that if he stayed any longer, this chit was going to eat him alive, with or without his permission.

"You know what?" he laughed nervously, swinging his fist in a soldier like motion. His movements were funky and mechanical, proof of his discomfort with the whole scene. Girls made him jittery. They always had, even Hermione Granger. He would rather face off twenty Voldemorts than have to speak to one head on."I—um, thank you so much for the…presentation, but I don't think I'd like to purchase anything. But, thank you for your time."

Abruptly, she reached out, her neon yellow painted nails clawing his shoulder. She pouted in what she must have thought was an enticing manner, leaning to press the warmth of her bosom up against his arm.

"Wait," her voice was syrupy and she looked up at him through what he could now see were fake lashes. The side of the left lash was popped out, flopping with the batting movements of her lids. Harry held his breath painfully.

"I haven't showed you the Ring of the Hare." Her hand found its way to his chest, lightly raking the collar of his V-neck, Auror attire. "They say it boosts stamina and increases fertility."

A cat like grin smiled up at him, holding no secrets.

Or decency.

That was it. He could not play gentleman any longer.

Without much regret, he bodily shoved her off of him. "I said no thanks."

Harry was far too riled up to even deal with anything right now and considering he had the legendary Potter temper, he knew he would spend the rest of the day a ticking time bomb. He should be getting back to the hotel where he could distract himself with the telly or something. As he marched down the street, he gave a pitiful attempt at waiting for the bloody crosswalk sign to give him the go to cross the street. The countdown from 35 was too much to bear. He would was going to blast it into pieces before the little green light man could flash. He grumbled.

Some bloke beside him stepped on his foot, and that was the last straw.

"You can't be bloody fucking serious." He growled and instantly pushed his way past the little group of people waiting to cross the road. He could almost feel his magic aching to get loose and he could not risk an outburst of accidental magic in the middle of America.

He aimed straight for a small alleyway behind a jewelry store. It looked private and shaded.

Damn it all, he would just bloody apparate.

-#-

"Dean," Sam hissed into the phone.

He had been casing the neighborhood for a while now. In the morning he had scouted out the church, finding nothing other than the aftermath of another afternoon mass that went on without bumps.

Sam had been walking along with the patrons of Manitou Springs, following the flow on main street, when he saw two people standing abnormally still outside of some tribal shop. Reaching into his laptop case, he pulled out a three month old copy of a golf magazine. He was not really sure why he had it, but its presence was now the most useful thing he would encounter today.

He faux dropped it by the shop's door and thought now would be a good time to employ his (nonexistent) drama skills.

Faking a sigh of exasperation in what he hoped was a believable manner, he bent to pick it up.

He watched as the man and woman did nothing, both of their eyes trained upward warily at something inside of the shop.

Letting his finger grip the magazine, he chanced a look indoors. Past the glass, he could see a redheaded woman and a man mostly blocked from view. Confused, he eyed the still couple once more. Their eyes were glued to a point above the door.

Sam let his gaze trail upward and blinked in shock when he saw a devil's trap spray painted on the ceiling.

Picking up the magazine, he whipped out his phone and speed-dialed Dean.

"Hello?" was the groggy response.

Sam refrained from chastising him. "Are you seriously still asleep?"

"Hey, man, don't judge."

Sam leaned against the glass window of the shop, keeping his peripheral vision lined up with what he was nearly positive was a set of demons. He had been doing this long enough to point them out…and the devil's trap was a dead giveaway. They were probably low grade demons, fresh out of Hell. Still getting used to being back in a meat suit, able to look like humans, but not in tune with mimicking the subtleties of human behavior.

"Remember those key chains we were looking for?"

"Wha—?"

"I think I found a few downtown."

He could almost see his brother straighten into alertness. "Where, Sammy?"

"Just a few blocks from the motel. One block east from the church, Crave Avenue. I found this little shop."

Sam backed up to see the name. "Native American Talismans."

"I'll be there in two minutes with the goods."

Dean was true to his word. A few minutes later, Sam saw his now alert form trotting up the street. Sam was going to meet him halfway, but a man charging from the store behind him pushed him straight out of the way. Sam backed up a bit to get out of the fire of his warpath, but tensed seeing the two demons follow in the same direction.

Dean jogged up to him, lightly panting, opening his mouth to greet him, hazel eyes already looking around for their prey.

Sam shushed him, pointing to the man and the woman, not bothering to look covert.

Dean adopted his business humor. "Orange tank and Mr. Sweats?"

Sam nodded in affirmation.

Running his hand through his blond hair, Dean took a step forward. "What are they doing?"

Sam shook his head.

Both of the brothers watch with the patience of hunters as the demons made their way to the crosswalk, only to stop mid-stride and change direction when a familiar curly haired kid shoved his way out of the crowd and behind Tiomonte's Jewels.

Dean looked incredulously at Sam, who had no answer as the demons followed. Maybe they were planning an ambush? Trying to cause a little hell-havoc on Earth?

"Shoot first, ask questions later?' Dean asked dully, one hand already on his pistol and another pulling the demon slaying knife from his pocket, throwing it to Sam.

"Let's go."

In a second they both raced to the opening of the alley alcove, just in time to see the curly haired man emit a growl of frustration.

"That's it! I'm so not in the mood for this. _Stupefy maxima_!"

The Winchesters heeled more rapidly than a mutt on a leash, Dean's fingers fisting in Sam's shirt to hold him from moving. A bright light poured from the man's hand and the demons dropped like flies to the ground. Then, with a loud pop, the man was gone.

Dean readjusted his body, peering down the alley at the motionless demons and empty air around them. With a sense of foreboding chilling chest, he looked at Sam.

"What the fuck?"

* * *

_A/N: Howdy, y'all! Hope you're liking it so far. Thank you so much for the support you've already given! I'm glad to see that you guys are intrigued. I hope it stays that way. I'm doing my best to keep the characters as...in character...as I can XD. By the way, for those who asked: Just because the pairing is not Cr/H, does NOT mean that Crowley is no longer playing a role in this fic. He's one of my absolute favourite characters, so he stays. _

_Like it? If you do...or don't...let me know. In a **REVIEW**. :)_

_v_

_v_


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: All disclaimers, warnings, plot changes, etc are located in the first chapter and stand true throughout the entire story. I own nothing!_

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet_**

Chapter Three

* * *

"I don't know, Bobby, I'm telling you he just disappeared." Dean boomed, one hand wrapped around the steering wheel and the other holding his cell phone to his ear as he looked with irritation at the traffic. "Some light or whatever took out the demons and—bam!—he splits! We're dealing with some weird. Fucking. Shit."

Sam huffed exasperatedly from beside him, reaching over for the third time trying to grab the phone. "Dean, gimme the phone!"

Dean threw him the face and simply switched ears to avoid his brother's wandering grasp, continuing as he batted him away. "What? Mmh? You think he's a demon? Well, why take out his demon comrades like Hitler on a bad day, huh? Don't you think that's a little suspicious?"

Sam leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. He could hear Bobby talking away on the other side of the line.

"What do you think? This is another demon-on-demon rebellion? Like we thought with the whole Ruby versus Lilith thing? Civil war switched from heaven to hell now? Man, Bobby, look, I don't know. Doesn't sound right; Crowley's got the pit under wraps. Plus, I've never seen a demon shine."

"Dean! Will you give me the phone?" Sam hissed, finally snatching it away. "Bobby! Hey, it's Sam."

"I know, you idjit."

Sam rubbed his forehead wearily. "Yeah. Bobby, Dean doesn't have the full story down. So, let me repeat. We're tracking these demons and they turn out to be following this guy. Guy runs into alleyway, sees them trailing, says he can't take it anymore, and knocks them out. All we saw was a light illuminating the alley. He said something…strange. It sounded, I guess, like Latin?"

Sam looked at Dean questioningly, waiting for confirmation. Dean raised his eyebrows. "What? Oh, sorry, are you looking for my input, oh wise one?'

"C'mon, Dean, real mature." He retorted hotly.

Dean turned his eyes back to the road and gestured for Sam to put Bobby on speaker. "I thought it was gibberish. Heebie-jeebie stuff. Sounded like…stupid-fy maximum."

Dean shrugged, contorting his face in confusion, though Bobby could not see it.

"Did you say, 'stupid-f-eye,' boy?" The words were drawled out sluggishly, before Bobby let out a breath. "I heard that Manitou Springs is a bit of a hippie area. Sam, you sure your brother didn't take anything? The only thing stupid here is the way you guys are soundin'. Anything else you saw?"

"Actually, Bobby. Dean's right, it did sound like stupid-fy maximum." Sam made a gesture to himself that clearly stated he knew how ludicrous he sounded, although he tried his best to sound supportive.

"So, you're trying to tell me that one guy, solo, yelled at demons to maximize their stupidity? And they fainted?"

"No, no! Bobby, I'm just saying it sounded like that. It was definitely in Latin, we just have the phonetics wrong. It all happened really fast. Then, a light appeared. "

"Latin?" he gruffed. "Well, I'm not sure about creatures that throw out Latin phrases. Most of them just use their paranormal powers to toss people against walls, with a snap of their fingers."

Dean shifted, rotating the key in the Impala to turn off the engine. Leaning back in his seat, the leather squawking under his weight, he turned his attention to the phone. "He vanished, Bobby. Almost like Cas. Or Crowley."

Sam nodded vigorously, "Yeah, expect instead of leaving quietly, there was a popping sound. Like someone took a pin to a balloon…or as if he were sucked into a vacuum."

"And what of the demons?"

"Like deadwood. Asleep, knocked out cold. Sammy and I exorcised them while their meat suits were on the ground." Dean said, matter-of-factly.

They could almost hear Bobby's brain churning. "That makes no sense. A demon doesn't depend on their host's consciousness. Hell, the body could be dead and a demon's still wearing it to the prom! There's no way a demon could be passed out…even if you took a bat to its head, it just bounces back, unfeelingly."

Dean looked pissed. "Well, it happened. So, apparently it's all very possible."

They heard some shifting and the sound of Bobby popping open a drink. Probably something strong, with a fiery kick. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head. Did any of you see this thing up close?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw his brother shift uncomfortably, in that way he did when was either about to unsuccessfully lie or when he was the victim of itching powder in his pants. "Sammy?"

Sam was not sure why all of a sudden he felt so much hesitation. He remembered the man he had met at OrganiCore earlier that morning. It had unmistakably been him that ran into the alleyway behind the jeweler's. "Yes, I kinda saw him this morning."

"And you're just saying this now? Want to share with the class?!"

Sam promptly ignored Dean's choice words of the moment.

"Well, what did it look like, boy?"

Sam raised his shoulders. "He." He corrected. "Um. Short…or, at least shorter than me."

"Everyone's shorter than you, Sasquatch." Dean shot, his voice stinging with a bit of venom, but Sam just carried on, sending him a stern look.

"Dark hair, pale skin—"

"Snow White?" Dean bit out, now rolling his eyes and unjamming his seatbelt.

"Dean, will you please let me finish?" His request was met with silence, so he resorted to summoning the man's image in his head. It came easily. "Around my age, really bright green eyes, round glasses, bangs, curly, long hair."

A sound of glass clinking. "Anything noteworthy?"

Sam thinned his lips, shaking his head. "That's the thing, Bobby. He didn't seem so out of place. I mean, nothing about him looked beast-like at all. He wasn't vampiric-ly pale, his eyes never flashed…I mean, I spoke to him for a good few minutes and he didn't scream psycho supernatural murderer. He was polite, maybe a little flustered. He blushed."

Dean raised an eyebrow, "He _blushed_? That's the 'noteworthy' thing you tell Bobby?" a slight pause, "What the fuck did you do to him? He blushed?"

If glares granted wishes, Dean would be hogtied. "It's not noteworthy. That's what I'm saying. He seemed completely normal."

"Yep, so normal that he makes demons swoon while shopping."

"Shut your pie hole, Dean. Sam, you saw the guy up close? Are you positive there was nothing distinguishable about him? Nothing he was wearing?"

"He was wearing all black, casual clothes. He had a British accent…" Sam suddenly paused, closing his eyes. "And a tattoo. It was on the nape of his neck. A weird, symbol looking thing. Ahh-a triangle with a circle inside of it and…a line running down the middle. I can probably draw it for you, if you'd like."

"Sounds good, idjits. I think its time I start hitting the books. This doesn't sound like it's gonna be an easy one. You two need to dig; I can't possibly make progress with this little to go by."

Dean took the phone from Sam, getting out of the car. "Can do, Bobby."

"And be careful. Don't do anything stupid."

-#-

The next day was a day for snooping. After much debate, the Winchesters decided to forego the FBI black suit get-up and instead dressed down, keeping their badges on their person just in case they needed to trespass onto private property.

"Besides," Dean had reasoned, "The badie's seen you before. If one day you look like a broke kid with a laptop and the next like Men In Black, you'll stick out like a prostitute in the White House. We don't want to draw any more attention to ourselves."

It seemed pretty reasonable.

So, around ten o'clock in the morning, Sam led Dean to OrganiCore, and the two assumed a table in the back, facing the bar, waiting for their target to stroll in unaware. It was a good plan: sit and wait for the prey to come to you, while enjoying a steaming cup of coffee. The only issue was, the prey never showed.

On his third cup of chestnut brew, Dean gave a suffering groan. "We've been in this vegan hut for three and a half hours. The bitch skipped our date."

Sam swallowed the last of his yogurt parfait, humming in put out agreement.

Dean slid his cup out of the way. "We might as well jet. Breakfast time is about over. He could be parading around town."

Sam nodded, moving to pull on his jacket, when out of the corner of his vision, he saw a glimpse of strawberry blonde hair bouncing on its way to the bar. Now completely fixating his attention in her direction, he motioned to Dean. "The guy waved her over when we spoke. They seemed on familiar terms."

Dean followed his gaze. "Sammy, can we rewind this soap for a minute? What exactly did the guy do to you?"

With his eyes still on the waitress, Sam replied in a plain voice, "He bought me a coffee."

Dean jutted his chin out with dry disbelief, taking a second before starting. "Are you saying this dude buys you a drink and waves a hot chick over? What was he doing, recruiting you for a threesome?"

Sam cursed, feeling his cheeks burn defensively. "What? God, Dean, no. That's disgusting. He accidentally bumped into me when I came into the café. He nearly made me drop my laptop and I guess from the force of the collision, my laptop key popped out again. He felt bad, saying it was his fault and made it up to me by getting me coffee."

Standing, Sam pushed the check toward Dean. "You pay. I'm going to go talk to her."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Dean uttered, standing.

Sam turned with an inquisitive look.

"It's my job to talk to the girls."

Another eye roll. "Sit, Dean. Just pay."

-#-

After his little hissy fit, Harry decided that the best thing to do was spend a day indoors. However, he knew himself too well: Harry could not stay still for that long, cooped up in one place. What could he say? Consequences of growing up in a cupboard. He preferred to exercise his freedom, so with that in mind, he guessed the best thing for him would be a change in schedule. He skipped his usual trip to Manitou Springs and instead decided to tour around Colorado Springs. In the hotel's reception area, he picked up a pamphlet on nearby attractions and with a bit of excitement at the opportunity to do some exploring, he chose a day trip to Pike's Peak.

Packing his rucksack, he set out, hoping that today's events would be a little less exciting.

As he closed the door behind him, he made sure to hook the 'Do Not Disturb' hook on the handle.

He held the pamphlet to his face, searching for the address to which he would have to tell the taxi driver.

"Alright. Prepare for some wickedness today, Harry." He told himself. "And let's hope there's no paparazzi following you. The last thing you need is a photo of you windblown on a trolley for the _Prophet_'s front page."

-#-

"James Evans." Sam stated with a triumphant look on his face as he and his brother climbed into the Impala. "He's staying at a nearby Hilton in Colorado Springs."

"Did you figure out what street the Hilton is on?"

Sam deflated. "Um. No."

"Awesome work, lil' bro." Dean cracked, "When you do the sweet talking, make sure you squeeze out all details possible…including her number. Which I'm guessing you bypassed?"

Now peeved, and feeling slightly underappreciated, Sam buckled his seatbelt and looked out the window as they drove, following the signs for Colorado Springs. "You could at least validate me a little more. It was a surprise she knew anything considering how many people she serves. Besides, she said he doesn't talk much. It took her all week to get just that little bit of info out of him!...And I wasn't hitting on her. I have more respect women than you do."

Dean glanced at him, affronted. "More respect? No one has more respect for women than me! I respect all sorts of chicks, especially the ones that know what they're doing." His affronted look dropped, giving way to a deviant, rugged grin. He winked at his brother. "Aw, come on, Sammy. You're such a prude."

Sam tipped his head back, "I'm not a prude. I just don't like degrading females. There are certain things that shouldn't be talked about, Dean. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all."

"I thought was I said was pretty nice!"

Sam straightened his back, answering seriously. "No, Dean. It wasn't. You can't just go around objectifying human beings. That's wrong! Not only could it behoove you to have some more respect, but a little more conservativeness—at least to spare the rest of the public your vulgarity."

"Jesus, Sammy! What the hell? I didn't realize you were on your period." Dean reached over, turning down the radio. "What's wrong with you? You've been all PMSing since we spoke to Bobby."

Pursing his lips, Sam inhaled deeply. "Nothing, Dean. I'm fine."

"Dude, are you-?"

"I said I'm fine!" Sam barked, defensively.

Momentarily lifting a hand from the steering wheel, Dean waved to him, palm up as if saying 'what can you do?' Sometimes, Sammy's moodiness was unpredictable. It was probably something to do with hormones; Dean always felt his younger brother, the sensitive one, always had a chemical imbalance. More estrogen than testosterone-probably threw off his homeostasis.

But, in all honesty, he knew his brother better than he knew anyone. Reading Sammy had been his job ever since Mom's death. Dad had been out and about hunting, while he had been left with the responsibility of caring for his brother. He basically raised Sam from a shrimp of a kid to the giant that had fled off for Stanford. Dean was well acquainted with all of Sam's expressions and body language. He knew when Sam was hungry, when he needed to use the bathroom, and when some ethical dilemma was eating away at him. Yet, he also knew he could not push Sam to talk. He would have to be patient.

"Okay then. Change of subject," Dean noted as he braked by a stop sign. They had come to a fork in the road. "We're in Colorado Springs. Now, mission: locate Hilton. Right or left, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, mind drifting off elsewhere. "Left, I guess."

Dean could not prevent snorting. "You sure about that Mister Right Wing Conservative?" he whispered breathily, making the turn.

"I heard that."

It took forty five minutes, three wrong turns, and asking a local police officer for directions to get to the Hilton Hotel. All in all, the journey could have gone worse. When they entered the lobby, Dean marched straight to a gawky looking teenager with square glasses and nose-spray on the side of his keyboard, standing behind the front desk.

Sam saw his brother automatically scan the area, unconsciously looking for any immediate danger and taking in where the security cameras were before looking the kid straight in the eye. He whipped out his FBI badge, flashing it with an air of importance.

"My name is Agent Charles Turner, undercover FBI." He tilted his head to his right. "This is my partner, Agent Barnes Whittaker, also FBI."

Sam gave a sharp nod of salutation and unpocketed his badge for viewing. The kid jumped a little, greasy hair flopping and eyes widening impossibly behind the glasses.

"How can I help you, sirs?" His voice was shaky and cracked. Poor kid.

Dean regarded him stonily. "We'd like a little information on one of your guests. The name under registration should be James Evans."

The teenager froze, looking a little sick. "I-is he going to be arrested?" he groaned a little before suddenly continuing, "The Hilton has no association with the backgrounds and legal history of our guests. We cannot be held accountable for—"

"Save it, kid." Dean put his babbling to a halt. "Relax. Mister Evans is not going to jail. We just want to ask him a few questions. What can you tell us from his reservation file?"

Jumping a little, but listening, the teenager began typing furiously on the keyboard with shaky hands, clicking on the mouse, presumably pulling up their suspect's reservation log. "Uhm, Mister James Evans, room 319, standard suite, booked for precisely three months time."

Dean nodded. "Anything else?

"Credit card number 3560 553582 44740, security code 1112. American Express."

Sam stepped in, "Is there any contact information?"

A few more clicking sounds. "Yeah. Six Wilwagon Lane, Bletchingley, Redhill, Surrey. Phone number: 01935 9658871."

Sam looked at Dean, who already appeared to be bored, but thankfully, attentive at the information. It did not do much for them, considering the two had no idea what British contact information was supposed to sound like. How were they going to check for falsification?

"And flight information?"

"British Airways, flight number 0933."

Dean thanked him, enquiring whether or not they could get a paper copy of the mysterious James Evans' information. With a bit of protest from the teenager, who was afraid what he was doing was illegal (which it was), Dean managed to console him with the fact that they would not take his name. The paper copy was in their hand in minutes, along with a keycard.

"Here," Dean said, handing the papers to Sam. "Text this to Bobby."

Sam turned to him. "What are you going to do?"

Dean looked at him pointedly. "I'm going to go check his rooms."

"What? Dean, that could be dangerous without back-up. We'll go together."

Dean scoffed. "Uh, sorry, cream-puff. No way, Jose. You and the little target are already acquainted. For all we know, he's waiting for you to get close so he can eat you. You stay, watch the door. Call me if he comes in. You're the one who knows what he looks like."

Sam wanted to protest, but it was true. If they both went and it was a trap, they would both be stuck. If Dean stayed and Sam went, Dean would not recognize Evans if he decided to come home.

"And if he's in his room?" Sam asked, warily.

"Then, I'll deal." Dean winked. "Text Bobby the info. He needs it pronto."

-#-

Dean skipped the elevator and instead jogged up the stairs to the third floor before settling into a casual walk to room 319.

Luckily, no one was in the hallway, so Dean felt fine with a keycard in one hand and his silver pistol in the other. Cocking the gun, making sure it was loaded, he took a deep breath, gathering his alertness. Sliding the keycard in its detector, his heart skipped to attention as it flashed green.

With clean rapidity, he opened the door, gun ready to fire.

The room was still. Empty.

Relaxing a smidge, he closed the door behind him. Eyes still trying to detect any motion, he stepped into the middle of the room. No one on the beds.

He toed towards the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. With his back to the wall, he peered past the door. No one in the shower or on the toilet, and a quick glance at the mirror told him that no one was behind the door.

Still full of adrenaline, despite being without supernatural company, Dean let his gun fall to his side. He looked around the room.

There was really nothing in plain sight. The bed was made and the room was spotless save for the suitcase in the corner. A little too clean, he thought, considering the Do Not Disturb sign was hanging off the door he entered, signifying that no maid had come to tend to the room.

He quickly walked over to the suitcase, unzipping it and flipping it open.

With an extreme amount of caution, as if something was going to set off a nuclear bomb, Dean use his index finger and thumb to card through the suitcase. Three sets of black, V-neck tee shirts, four sets of black pants, a few pairs of boxers and socks.

He sighed in defeat.

The sound of his cell phone ringing nearly had him falling from his squatted form on the floor. Sammy. Shit.

He picked up the phone, pistol at the ready again.

"He here, Sammy?" Adrenaline was once again pumping through his veins, sending Dean into full work mode. Bring it!

"No."

Dean's shoulder dropped. "No? Then why the fuck are you calling?"

"Well, I didn't hear any gunshots or commotion. So, I wanted to make sure you were alive."

Dean sigh, using the back of his hand to knead his temple. "You hear me. I'm good. I'll be down in a minute."

He hung up and looked dully at the suitcase. Trust Sammy to call in the middle of a hunt to check up on his wellbeing.

Dean was just about to give up and call it Yahtzee, when as he went to close the suitcase, something shuffled and two royal blue rounded containers caught his eye. He went to flick one of the boxes. No explosion—it was decorated heavily, made out of cardboard. He grabbed them and put them into his pocket. Time to go. He had spent way too long in here.

-#-

When Dean entered the lobby, he was expecting to be met with a hyperactive, worry-wart Sam Winchester. But rather, he found his brother sitting in the hotel lobby's sofa, face down with a pen in hand.

Making his way over to him, Dean called out, "Sammy."

Sam looked up, "Hey." Before ignoring him again and taking out his cell phone. Angling the camera at the hotel pad in his lap, Sam snapped a picture and sent it on its way.

"What are you doing?"

"I forgot to send Bobby the drawing of the tattoo." He said sheepishly. "But, don't worry, I send him all of our guy's information."

"Can I see?'

Sam nodded, ripping the paper off and tossing the pad back to the side-table. "It was on the nape of his neck."

He handed the paper to his brother, pocketing the free pen. "It was sort of hard to see. His hair was covering it and I only saw it for a brief second, but I think I got it right. If you ask me, it looks like an occult symbol. Maybe something Wiccan or Pagan. It's not detailed enough to be Egyptian, so we're not dealing with a mummy, and it lacks the elegance of an Arabic symbol. As for—"

"Sammy, shut up."

Sam ceased his ponderings, looking miffed at his brother before he realized Dean had gone stone still, his eyes trained on the paper with an unusual intensity."

Sam felt trepidation. "What is it?" he asked, nervously.

"Sammy. I've seen this symbol before."

"What do you mean you've seen this before?" Sam asked, his heart twisting in anticipation.

Dean's hand twisted the paper back to Sam's face, showing it to him as if he had not just drawn it. "A triangle, circle inside of it, with a line through the middle."

Sam leaned forward, "Yeah…?" He urged.

"Sammy! This was on one of the lockboxes in Dad's storage."

* * *

_A/N: I probably do not have to say this, but just in case: all contact information marked as "James Evans'" in this story is made up. Fake, not real. The credit card number was not real, do not attempt to use it. The address was not real, save for "Bletchingly, Redhill, Surrey," which is a real place. The phone number may or may not be real, I'm not sure, I just typed numbers at random. Do not call the number and/or attempt to use any info. Thanks. _

_Anyway. Hope you're liking it so far! A little note: you can always look at my profile page to see how things are progressing with the story. For CS, progress is tracked near the bottom of the page. You can see which chapters are finished and posted, which are finished and not posted, and what is in the makes. _

_Thanks for all __the support so far! I HOPE YOU'RE LIKING THIS! Please..._ **please** **REVIEW**. _Tell me if you like it or hate it. _

_...and yes, for those who were concerned, Crowley makes an appearance soon ;)._

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	5. Chapter Four

_A/N: All disclaimers, warnings, plot changes are located in the AN of the prologue and stand true throughout this entire work of fanfiction. I own nothing. All social security no.s, phone numbers, addresses, and credit card numbers are made up at random and are most likely not real. I ask that none of you use them in reality. If a name, character, situation or whatever sounds familiar, it's probably because it is: belongs to JKR (HP) or Kripke (SPN)._

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet_**

Chapter Four

* * *

"So, you're saying that when we visited Dad's warehouse, you saw this symbol on a curse-box?" Sam asked, uncertainly.

"Yes. Why, are you doubting me?" Dean shot back, looking unimpressed. "I'm positive, Sam. I remember because it was the only box with one symbol on it. The other hex boxes had at least two protective drawings on this—remember? Binding magic. This one just had that symbol."

The austerity of Dean's voice reverberated in the car, bouncing off the cramped interior.

The next few minutes were spent in silence. The roar of the black Impala's engine and the sound of traffic around them served as a soothing, familiar song as she sped forward on the highway. As soon as Dean had recognized the symbol, they had went straight back to the hotel, where Sam was promptly told to 'get his shit,' and Dean and he had set out to Dad's warehouse. It was going to be a long ride. But then again, it always was. A twenty four hour drive was as customary to the Winchesters as tea-time was for the Brits.

"Are you sure it was a good idea to leave Evans without surveillance?" The question cut the quietness. Dean had not even put on the radio or his routine tapes; it was that time again.

Sam was convinced that Dean miraculously attained the ability to concentrate when they were on cases. As long as there was something to hunt, he was focused, transformed into the soldier Dad had molded him to be. The fun and playful Dean that the man embraced outside of 'work' would disappear to make way for the get-the-job-done strategist that he stored on the inside.

"His reservation was set for three months. So far, he's stayed in one place. I don't think he's going anywhere anytime soon. And if he does, we'll track him. He won't be able to leave the Springs area with a long bus ride or a plane: he didn't have a parking space rented. So no car. We'll be back in time."

Dean sighed. "Text Bobby. Tell him we may have a lead."

Sam did so without argument, juggling the phone between his hands for amusement when he finished. "Isn't it amazing?" he asked, a sense of bitter, but overwhelming admiration in his words. "Dad knew so much, especially for not being raised as a hunter. There were probably things he knew that we could never dream of."

Even though he still had unresolved issues with his father, Sam still felt proud. John Winchester was everything but father of the year, including society's everyday hero. A Batman in his own right.

Dean felt his lips curl despite the sadness that overtook him. "Dad may have not been home with us every second of the day to wipe our noses, Sammy, but he was a good man. He did a lot for this world. He kept people safe. He kept us safe. And to do that he sacrificed a lot, even by just knowing what was out there in this damned world."

The rest of the trip was without noise.

-#-

Their ride from Colorado Springs to the storage warehouse outside of Buffalo, New York was as smooth sailing as it could be. They had taken turns driving once they hit the twelve hour point, allowing one of them to sleep at a time. But, stubbornly, and according to Dean's insistence, they had not stopped, save for bathroom breaks. It was not like them to leave in the middle of a case, but the evidence they needed happened to be states away. So, they had no choice. The less time wasted, the better.

It was a good thing Dean had some beers, water, and snacks packed in the backseat or else they probably would have died off before they completed their trip.

When they finally arrived, the Winchesters walked into the facility, a bit sweaty looking, and checked in to get the key.

"Edgar Casey." Sam said, "Social, 6582."

The girl behind the desk nodded and handed him a sign in sheet, matching his signature before giving him the okay and pointing him in the right direction.

When they entered this time, Dean could not help but feel a bit of nostalgia. "Remember the rabbit's foot?"

Sam barked a laugh. "Yeah, awesome thing that was. Talk about cursed objects, no wonder Dad put that thing away…it was a ruddy piece of junk. I'm still lamenting the loss of my shoe."

Dean laughed with him, remembering the way he threw Bela the talisman and the bemoaning astonishment on her face as she reflexively caught it. Good times. It was his only fond memory of her. He still held a strong dislike for her, although truth holds that it was polluted with a hint of sympathy considering they had both met the same fate at one point.

"Come on." Sam said, walking past his soccer trophy and back by the guns and hex boxes. "Where'd you see it?"

Dean let his eyes trail over the iron shelves, above the area where the rabbit's foot box had occupied. He walked over to it, seeing a box on dark cherry wood showered in dust. Its lock was rusting, but the symbol etched on the top was revealed as he blew a breath toward it. His hands reached out, carefully embracing the small chest and pulling it out for Sam to see.

"This is what you saw on his neck?"

Sam looked stunned. "Exactly."

"Okay, then. Ace that. Let's get back to the car."

-#-

Sam could barely contain his anxiety, so it was a good thing that Dean was the one driving and he was assigned to open the lock. What would they find? What sort of cursed object could be hidden within this box? What was so worthy of their father locking it away to shield it from the world?

Quickly working his lock picking kit with ease and agility, the lock popped open. Sam studied the outside of the box. "You know, there's no binding magic on this box." He frowned.

All of the other boxes in Dad's storage were locked and bound with binding magic that would keep whatever it was stuck inside and powerless. But, this particular box lacked the sigils and carvings that all the other boxes in Dad's stash had in common.

Dean hummed warily, eyes darting untrustingly in the box's direction as if it was going to suddenly come alive and take a chomp at his brother. "That doesn't mean it isn't dangerous. Don't touch it, whatever it is. You don't want to initiate physical contact with the object."

Sam pulled up his sleeves to cover his hands. Both brothers hoped that whatever was in the box could give them a clue to what kind of creature they were dealing with. If they were lucky, they would be able to glance inside the box and with a few pokes, they would recognize it.

Feeling butterflies swarming in his gut, Sam slowly opened the box to reveal its demonic presence to the world.

Dean looked jittery next to him, peeling his eyes away from the road to try to get a closer look. "Well? What is it?"

Sam's head tilted to the side, disoriented.

There was a pause.

"It's a book."

Dean's face relaxed ever so slightly, but still remained a hint of seriousness. "What kind of book? Voo-doo? An idiot's guide on how to enslave a demon?" Nasty things books were. Believe it or not, of all the dangerous things they could find, a book was sometimes the worst of the worst. People, vampires, werewolves, hunters…you name it. They all had an incredibly stupid hobby of writing, and not just about taking a piss, but heaping chunks of supernatural information that should be classified, not shared with the world's population.

Sam reached in, still cautious, and picked it up. It was a thin book of great age, he guessed, judging by its imperfect, pale blue cover. On the front was a picture of a man adorned in what looked like 15th century attire, a book in front of him and a quill in one hand.

He wiped off the dust. "Uh, it says…_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_."

"Tales of the what what?"

Sam and he shared a questioning look. "Beedle the Bard."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "What the fuck is a 'beedle the bard'? Is that like a jack in the box?"

Clicking his tongue, "I dunno." Sam replied.

"Well…what's inside of it?"

Sam pushed the cover open, before briefly glancing toward his brother. "Think I can touch it? It doesn't seem cursed. There's no binding spell on the inside of the box either."

Dean looked reluctant, but bit out, "I guess."

Deciding that he would take his chances, Sam allowed his finger to brush the book, preparing for an unpleasant impact. When he felt no disturbance a few seconds later, he gripped it firmly in his hand, stroking the first blank page again. "These pages…" he commented.

"What?" Dean winced. "Human leather?"

"No. Not at all. They're delicate, probably really antique. Like papyrus—parchment. It must have been made a long time ago."

"Okay. It's an old book. Gotcha. Any words in this old book?"

Sam turned the page, coming to the table of contents. "Table of Contents," he read. "Page one, _The Wizard and the Hopping Pot_; Page twenty, _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_; Page forty three, _The Warlock's Hairy Heart_; Page sixty one, _Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump_…"* he paused to look up at Dean. "It sounds like children's stories."

Their bewilderment was practically tangible.

"Dad locked away a book of kiddie tales?"

Sam let his hands rest on the box with the book cradled gently, his thinking cap pulled on full force. "A bard." He said softy. "A bard is a poet, of sorts. It's a common term, I think, for someone of Scottish or English descent from somewhere between the Middles Ages and the early Renaissance period."

"God, you're such a nerd." Dean accused, not in the least bit dizzied by Sam's defensive expression. "Alright, so it's a really old book."

Really, what was the significance of an ancient book? Dean had a sinking feeling that driving all this way to fucking Buffalo had been a bust. The book was not a cursed object and so far, it had not aided either of them in resolving their issue. Unless they were dealing with a poet, coming this far had been useless.

Sam, sharing Dean's sentiment, was fingering the pages mindlessly, when he felt a misplacement of paper within them. Looking down he saw a bright neon green postage note. "Dad marked a part." He said hurriedly, flipping to the postage note.

"What part?"

Sam's eyes took in the page. "Page eighty seven._ The Tale of the Three Brothers._"

Dean licked his lips, eyes back on the road. "Never thought I'd say this, but. Let's get reading?"

-#-

"…And then he greeted Death as an old friend and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life."*

"That's it?" Dean's voice was heavy with sleep.

Sam shut the book. "That's it."

It had been eight hours since they left Buffalo with their newfound treasure. The first time they read _The Tale of the Three Brothers_, they had looked at each other in loss. The story was odd, to say the least. It was intriguing with an ominous, almost macabre tone; it gave off an air of chilliness that made Sam feel like it was not really for children. But then again, things were probably different in the fifteenth century: tales were different and stories did not follow the same flavor of those today.

When they read it, each hunter felt that they were missing something. So, they agreed on reading the book from the beginning. One story at a time, they indulged. Then, they read the book twice. Still, nothing cleared the mist. It was like having all of the having all of the parts to build a model plane in your possession, but lacking the instruction manual.

In the midst of their silent confusion, Sam's ringtone sounded.

"It's Bobby." He told Dean, answering the call and putting the caller on speaker.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean called, "What's up?"

"Mm, hey. Well, I went through all of that personal information you gave me. One things for sure, James Evans, probably isn't even James Evans. The man's shady as hell."

"Do tell, Bobby." Dean snorted. Honestly, when weren't their targets shady as hell?

"Okay, from the beginning. The credit card number doesn't exist. The address you gave me is made up: Six Wilwagon Lane, Bletchingley, Redhill, Surrey was a pub in England that burnt down seven years ago and now sits as an abandoned lot. I called the phone number and it belongs to an Arabella Figg, whose answering machine recording goes on about cats."

"Sheesh," Dean laughed. "Well, great."

"Oh, and there was no reservation for a James Evans in British Airways, flight number 0933. In fact, that particular flight's last four runs were to Hong Kong, Seoul, Osaka, and Sydney. It isn't scheduled to be in the states for another week, when it will make a trip to Lowell, Massachusetts."

"Alrighty then!" Dean cheered, falsely. "So, the guy's a criminal who knocks out demons."

Sam leaned toward the receiver. "This isn't good. If everything about him is false, then we have absolutely no records to go by. We can't track him if there's no trail of breadcrumbs."

"Tell me about it. But, at least we know what he's not. He ain't James Evans from Surrey. He don't have an American Express card and he hasn't been on British Airways any time as of late."

Dean slapped his palm against his forehead. "This just keeps getting better and better. Sam, pass me a beer."

"You guys find anything?"

"The symbol I drew for you was one that Dean recognized. It was on a box in Dad's storage container. No binding magic whatsoever on it, just a rusty lock. Inside the box is a book called _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. It looks like it's from the fifteenth century."

"Yeah, it's basically a book of freaky kid's stories." Chimed Dean, looking sarcastically peachy.

"Dad marked the last story, _The Tale of Three Brothers._" Sam filled him in. "It's about these three brothers, obviously, that come to a river that they can't cross. So, they magically make a bridge. They are about to cross it, but Death pops up, angry that they didn't die, but pretends to be okay with it and instead grants them whatever they want. One asks for a…wand…that beats everyone. Another asks for a stone that brings back the dead. The last asks for a cloak that hides him from Death. The first two brothers end up dying: the one with the wand gets murdered for it and the one with the stone commits suicide because his dead bride doesn't want to be with the living. For a while, Death can't find the final brother but then, the last one comes out of the cloak in old age, gives the cloak to his kid, and walks away with death as a friend."

"That's…interesting." Bobby replied, still chewing on what he just heard.

"It's basically a freaky bedtime story. I don't see how this has any significance at all. None of it sounds realistic." Dean grumbled.

"Are you two dim or what?" Bobby's voice crowed. "How long have you been readin' this book?"

"Well we read it twice through. A few hours." Sam estimated.

"And you've come up with nothing?"

"Hey!" Dean defended. "We've come up with lots of stuff."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Dean abruptly looked at Sam for help, making a gesture with his head for his brother to take the lead. Sam groaned softly.

"We know that it's a children's book. The writing is simplistic, even for the time. It's from the fifteenth century, written by Beedle the Bard—a poet."

"That's it?" Bobby deadpanned.

Sam looked as if someone had kicked his puppy. "That's all we got. For now, at least…it's sorta interesting: all of the stories have a mythical undertone. I don't remember much from my Renaissance History classes at Stanford, but I think a lot of literature had fantastical characters. I mean, think about it. A whole bunch of lore comes from books from around the Middle Ages; story books now have bases in historical literature.

Dean, perking up at the loss of traffic on the road, had a little smile on his face as he pressed the Impala for speed. He rolled down the windows to have the air blow in the car, waking them up. "So, what are you trying to get across, college boy?"

Sam felt a bit of guilt in his chest. He was not sure if Dean had ever wanted to attend college, but he always felt somewhat guilty that he had went and Dean never even had the opportunity. It stung. "I'm just saying that lore and stories? They have a bad habit of being true."

Dean put on his blinker, looking to the left before changing lanes. "So, what? These three dudes existed once upon a time?"

It sounded hysterical. "I mean…if werewolves exist, then why not…people who make bridges out of thin air…? There's no way to disprove it. But, then there's no way to prove it either…"

"Actually, there might be."

Bobby's voice was slow and suggestive as he wriggled his way back into the conversation.

Sam was not following. "What do you mean?"

"Hello! Earth to Dean. You guys read the book, but did you pay attention to any of it? There's a specific someone in there that we can get a hold of to ask."

Sam watched his older brother's fists tighten on the wheel. The more tired Dean got, the more impatient he got. "The three brothers?" He answered, his voice struggling to remain calm and reign in his temper.

"So, you didn't pay attention."

"Damnit, Bobby! Stop teasing. This case is important: we've got an unregistered, unidentified fucking freak running around and you're walking circles around the subject. If you have something helpful, say it now or get off the phone." Dean growled viciously.

"Don't take that tone with me, boy. If you were here, I'd knock you into the next century."

Sam reached over, putting a placating hand on Dean's shoulder, attempting to relax him. "Take it easy. Sorry, Bobby. You're going to have to excuse Dean. We're running on minimum sleep and you know how he gets. Assuming the brothers were alive, and now dead, what do we do? Get a Ouija board?"

"No. Ouija boards are too uncertain. You might be asking for the brothers and a demon answers instead. I don't know how this story has any relation to the symbol or to our guy, but the person who would know would have had to be present, yeah? To get to the bottom of this, we need to ask someone who keeps tabs on everyone: someone who knows the lore and why it's linked to this fake Evans character. One of your old friends, Dean."

"Who is…?" Dean urged, "Fill in the blank."

"Death." Bobby answered. "Ya idjit."

-#-

It was with a great amount of consideration and persuasion on Bobby's part that Sam and Dean changed their route from Manitou Springs to Bobby's place.

Sam could clearly see that Dean was about to explode.

Leaving Evans unattended was practically a job unfinished in Dean's book. It had been amazing that he had even allowed them to wander more than a mile's radius away from their target to get to Buffalo, but they had planned to be gone for exactly two days. Now, the time was increases. Their target was moving freely, possibly wreaking havoc all over Colorado and Manitou Springs. That plus the lovely fact that Bobby was suddenly keen on inviting Death to a conference was gritting on Dean's last shred of resolve.

After all, the last meeting they shared with Death had been a very disagreeable situation. They had had the brilliant idea to bind him, which of course, had made the horseman lethal and not to mention, it all brought memories of when Cas was a psycho wannabe God.

Bobby seemed more ambitious than ever. He claimed that he found a Japanese ritual to summon the King Shinigami: or basically, the head Death God. In the time it took for the Winchesters to get to Bobby's, the man had already gathered all of the necessary offerings and prepared the dialogue to be read.

So now here they were. Bobby in the middle of his study, painting some sort of symbol on the floor, surrounded by Japanese katakana that would serve as a welcoming stool for Death. Sam considered them lucky that Japanese rituals often had a more, well, Earth-based origin. No special animal sacrifices had to be made. Most of the summoning ingredients were herbs, roots, and bone of things long dead.

Sam watched Dean as the man began pacing. Dean never quite lost it, but he sure was not looking to hot. The emotional demeanor he loved to adopt was firmly in place. His expressions were easily held under his control, but Sam could still Dean's vigilance. He already voiced his opinion hundreds of times over: this was not a good idea. But, Sam had to disagree.

They had no leads and the image of the curly haired man was beginning to haunt Sam to the point that he had been fairly sure he was hallucinating. He knew not where the sudden obsession had blossomed, but every time he closed his eyes, he could see emerald eyes and a tiny smirk. And each image left him with a feeling that he just could not quite decipher. He stood by what he said before, even though obvious evidence pointed to the man being dangerous.

Sam had pretty good intuition, despite the fact that Dean teased him mercilessly for it.

He had been checking the news and police reports since they left. No one had been murdered or kidnapped in Colorado or Manitou Springs. Assuming Evans was still there, that meant that he was not there to kill people.

Something was not right about this whole situation.

But, still. None of that made up for the fact that Evans was definitely an illegal alien and had, at least, some freaky psychic abilities.

Sam sighed, switching his gaze from Dean to Bobby as the man opened an antiquated book with Asian characters elegantly brushed onto it. Spreading some dried herbs over the ground painting, Bobby began chanting in, surprisingly, fluid Japanese.

Dean froze, eyes on Bobby as well.

It took a few surges of the flame and a few minutes hesitation, but when Death finally showed, Sam deemed him not a happy camper.

His elderly frame standing tall and strong, despite the wrinkles and cane made him look all the more fierce as he appeared in the center of Bobby's drawings. His eyes dark and perilous, he stepped forward, twisting the ring on his gnarled finger. The slicked back, dark hair glinted in the light of the candle and he surveyed the room with a venomous sneer.

His eyes caught Dean, but before he could shoot an accusatory remark, Dean jumped, gesturing wildly like a spitfire. "Uh-uh. No fucking way. Don't look at me, this was their idea!"

Seemingly without any remorse in his hazel eyes, Dean pointed Death in Bobby and Sammy's directions and backed up near the wall to sit on a pile of books.

He did not know about Bobby, but Sam personally had the desire to stick his head in the dirt. Death's presence, though silent, was piercing and commanded a poisonous caution. The horseman reeked of power and his stance looked as if it held no room for mercy. They had purchased some of the state's best fried greenbeans as a peace offering, but when Death's eyes locked with Sam's, the young man feared he would loose the capability to function.

Death took another step forward. "I would say that it is good to see you alive and kicking without the aid of my wall, but…such pleasantries are hardly apropos for the given situation."

Turning his cane in his hand and reaching up to nonchalantly pick a speck of dust off of his tailored tuxedo, Death leaned forward with a menacing leer. "Tell me. Why do you three continue to pester me when I have made it clear that I am not one to be pestered?" His words were sharp, annunciated with perfection and seemed to slice through the room with the intention to maim. "There was a time when death was respected, even feared. But, now, death is at everyone's beck and call, or so it seems."

The dark eyes trailed back to Dean for a moment, lingering, and he spoke matter-of-factly. "The first time I was called upon and bounded, I was filled with rage. The second time I was called upon and bounded, infuriation lit my veins like fire. Now, the third time I am called upon, I barely have any energy left to be angry with such idiocy. So, tell me, what is it that you want? And make it quick, because if things don't go according to schedule," his eyes darkened and Dean shivered under the weight of his gaze. "I will be forced to make a change of plans to compensate."

Sam opened his mouth to apologize, but Death's head swiveled to his face and he cut him off. He caressed his ring ominously. "Don't." the word was loud and seemed to echo in Bobby's modest living space. "Spare me empty sentiments and inform me: what is it that you selfish humans so greatly yearn for that you risk your souls for this evening?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop fifty degrees.

Sam could only nod, his mouth dry. It took an incredible amount of force to unpin himself from Death's glare as he reached behind him onto Bobby's desk and pulled off the slip of paper he had been drawing on in the Hilton. He felt as if he were occupying the same room as a vindictive king cobra.

He kicked his cracked lips and held it up. "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to know what this is, would you?"

* * *

_*-All table of contents, pg numbers, cover description, etc (the quote) that is mentioned when describing The Tales of Beedle the Bard belong to JKRowling. Not me. I bought the book that's all, so I copied that in the fic. It's fantastic and you should buy one if you don't own one: she not only writes the stories, but I believe she does her own illustrations-fabulous! She is majorly talented! So. #notmine._

_A/N: Oh, heyy. I decided I like the dialogue cliff-hanger. Kinda classy-let's see if I can wear it out ;). Thanks for all of the reviews/support/love! A special thanks to faithful reviewers, who've been doing so every chapter. You know who you are and you are so appreciated._

* * *

_THIS IS KINDA FUNNY:_

So...I was driving and passed a street called Purgatory Lane...and I discovered the difference between SPN fangirls and normal people.

*passes street sign*

Me (SPN fangirl): ...Did anyone else see that? The street is called Purgatory.

Normal People in the car: Well. That's like disturbing.

-fangirl gives street sign an intense look-

Me (SPN fangirl): OHMYGOD! _FJSKEAHRGAWICSASKD!_ CROWLEY, I FOUND IT! SAM, DEAN, CASTIEL, I REALLY FOUND IT! Man, you guys are looking in the wrong part of the country.

true story.

* * *

_drop me a_ **REVIEW**

_V_

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	6. Chapter Five

_A/N: All disclaiemers, warnings, plot changes, etc are found in the first chapter and stand true throughout the story...still not mine._

* * *

Recap:

Sam could only nod, his mouth dry. It took an incredible amount of force to unpin himself from Death's glare as he reached behind him onto Bobby's desk and pulled off the slip of paper he had been drawing on in the Hilton. He felt as if he were occupying the same room as a vindictive king cobra.

He kicked his cracked lips and held it up. "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to know what this is, would you?"

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet_**

Chapter Five

* * *

Death's eyes glowed in unmistakable recognition and suddenly, a nasty and irked sneer pulled at his lips. He looked up from the piece of paper to Sam's eyes and clasped his cane in both hands.

A moment's silence went by and Dean had the most suspicious feeling that they were witnessing Death thinking.

Finally, he answered. "It depends. Of what interest is it to you?"

Sam seemed hesitant. His movements were slow and cautious, as if he expected Death to pounce on him any second. He connected eyes with Bobby and Dean. His brother gave him a shrug and Bobby threw him a 'get-on-with-it' expression. So, Sam went in for the kill. It would probably behoove them the greatest if this meeting was as concise as possible. The less time they wasted, the sooner they could untangle whatever this knot was.

"I met someone." Sam replied, still holding the paper out steadily. "He had this tattooed on his neck. We have reasons to believe that he is a danger, but we haven't had any luck in identifying what type of creature he is."

Death now held an omniscient, mocking smirk and he gave a sharp exhale, a silent bark of laughter. With all knowing eyes, he rolled his weight to the back of his heels. "You are hunting him." He stated in unconcealed amusement glinting in his gaze.

"He nearly blew up an alleyway," It was only a white lie, Dean sufficed, adopting a sarcastically playful smirk of his own. "Plus, if he has enough power to take down demons, it can't mean good news for the rest of us. We want to take care of this as quick as possible, so if you could just get on with it, we'll send you on your merry soul-collecting way."

Death did not look at Dean as he admonished him; he did not need to. His voice was booming despite its tranquil, hushed tone. It sent a shudder down Dean's neck. "I thought I told you to show me a little more respect, Dean. Just because you've had the luxury of wearing my ring does not mean you are on my level."

Bobby seemed to notice the way things were heating up between the two characters and stepped more firmly into Death's line of vision. "Look…" he paused for a moment before deciding to forego an honorific. "Death," the name was stale and awkward on his tongue, "the boys found a book that mentions you."

Death appeared to be unimpressed, but something about his expression hinted bitterness. "Many books mention me." He waved a hand as if to shrug off his infamy. "You wish to kill this man—the one who bears the symbol."

"Yeah. We want to gank it. Probably, shoot it, ask some questions, and then finish the job." Dean stated bluntly. "We just need to know how to kill it. So, what do we need? Silver? Wooden spike dipped in chocolate?"

Death licked his lips and blinked lazily. "It is probably not a creature, that which you seek."

Dean stopped in his tracks, sharing a look with Sam, before he chuckled lowly. "Sure. Not a creature. Okay, great. So, what? Another fucking Pagan god? How many do they fucking have, anyway?"

"No. Probably not a god." Death was now picking at his fingernails in a way that Dean associated with stuck up assholes. If he could wipe that damn look of the old geezer's face…

Dean sounded ticked. "Okay, not a god or a creature." The man clapped his hands and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. "A ghost?"

Death's hand dropped and he looked absolutely spiteful as he looked at the ceiling. He huffed in annoyance. "Most definitely not a ghost…unfortunately."

"Look. We don't have time for your fucking games, so stop toying with us and just spill. What the fuck does this symbol mean? And where can we find the bastard?"

Death's look of irritation increased tenfold. "Didn't you read, foolish human?" he snapped. "How would I know where he is? I _can't_ _find_ him."

Suddenly, Bobby emerged again and in his hands he held the book of tales and quoted. "'But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him.'"*

Dean stomped straight to Bobby, snatching the book from him. "Wait a fucking minute. You trying to tell me that this shit is actually for real? You are the 'hooded figure'?"

"We've seen weirder." Sam muttered, looking thoughtful.

Death straightened, looking slightly offended at Dean's jab. "Do not insult me. With time, fashion changes." Death wore a contemplative mask, before he half-smiled up at Sam. "I'm feeling quite generous today," he continued, voice suddenly taking a lighter tone.

He walked to the edge of the Japanese katakana, being unable to cross. His eyes surveyed the room before falling upon a text by Bobby. "Is that the book in which you discovered my summoning ritual?"

Bobby nodded begrudgingly. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"

Death looked unfazed by Bobby's demeanor. "Might I see it?"

Bobby, for all his tough exterior, was an utter bookworm—just as bad as Sammy and perhaps three hundred times more protective of his prized, priceless merchandise. For a minute, Dean believed that he would never hand the book over willingly. Bobby seemed on edge with Death's behavior, and it served him right, Dean concluded. However, the man gruffed a bit and bent down to pick it up and slowly stepped toward Death, holding it out like a reluctant peace offering.

Death hummed upon accepting it and began leafing through the pages. "The Japanese." He said in a wispy, lecturing manner, "Always seem to know of something they should not. If you ask me, they are by far one of the most progressive sects of the human race. I've observed that evolution has served them well."

"Page three hundred and forty-five." Bobby added, eyes scrutinizing Death's movements with the beloved text, looking ready to whip out a gun at any second. He only prayed that Death would not rip it to shreds. Not that it mattered much: he had copies of all his research books.

Death did not glance up, but seemed to nod in flippant gratitude. His eyes swept over the page, before he turned it and passed it back to Bobby.

"**デス・アーツ****. **A book of death rituals," he said distastefully. "What a rare find. You should be cautious as to protect that book. Many would sell their soul to hold the knowledge of the necromantic arts…I do believe you used the wrong summoning ritual. After all, it is not Death you seek."

"Are you fucking me?" Dean started, unable to contain his exasperation, but Death cut him off promptly, slamming his cane on the floor.

"You were close." He continued with a sigh. "Page three hundred and forty-six. I do believe my service has been fulfilled and I will take my leave now, if you would be so kind…?" Death tipped his head and motioned to his imprisonment on the floor.

Sam saw Dean out of the corner of his eye, looking like he was about to tear Death to threads. Dean did so hate those who spoke in riddles. He was a lay it down straight kind of guy. Yet, Bobby beat him to whatever his violent imagination was planning and walked forward, erasing part of the tracing with his left shoe, eyes glued to the page of the book in his palms.

Death's shoulders seemed to drop a millimeter and he fingered his ring once more. "My aid does not come without payment. I've had enough of doing charity work for a group of disrespectful hunters." He threw Dean a look and walked unhurriedly out of his summoning area.

"Should you manage to contain the one you seek, I'd dearly like to have a word with him. If he is still who I think him to be, we have some unfinished business."

With that he was gone.

-xXx-

"Are you sure this isn't another Pagan god?"

"One-hundred percent positive, Dean. There's no mention of anything of the sort in any Pagan text." Sam confirmed, typing away at the computer.

Dean had just wanted to summon the thing and get this over with. But, Bobby and Sam were determined to do some research beforehand to get an idea of what they were dealing with. Dean might have been inclined to believe it was a fairly good idea to be prepared, however, six hours had passed since they contacted Death and all they could come up with was a list of what this thing was not.

Dean tossed a gem stone he had found tucked on Bobby's desk into the air, watching gravity take its toll before he caught it, saving it from the vicious fate of slamming to the floor. "So…a Wiccan god? Or deity? 'Learned in the magical arts?' That screams Wiccan to me." He groaned in dismay. "Great. Just what we need, another fucking Voodoo fanatic."

"Dean has a point." Sam sighed, finally leaning away from his laptop and rubbing his eyes.

Bobby hummed from behind his desk, but did not bother to even look up, still tracing whatever he was reading. "Makes no sense."

"What makes no sense?" Dean quipped. "Our life?"

Bobby looked up, lips pursed and directed his comments to Sam, who, though looked vaguely tired, was more invested in the research than Dean was at the moment. "Death says not a creature, not a God, not an apparition. There's nothing left but human if we go by that checklist."

Sam sighed and stretched his arms a bit. He had that feeling again in his gut. "Something rubs me the wrong way about all of this, Bobby. Nothing seems to fit the equation. We're hunting this kid who has a strange sort of power, yet is by information disclosed to us, human…And then they're the fact that he's taking out demons? Those are the bad guys."

"Hm," Dean whistled. "A dude who slays demons with bright lights. Hey, Sam? When you spoke to this thing, was he all la-dee-da and shit? 'Cause if he was angst-y and a dick, I'm thinking it could be an angel on our hands."

"Hey, idjit. What part of the classification _human_ don't you understand?" Bobby retorted promptly.

Dean paused in tossing the gem and finally looked their way. He threw his hands up in a mock position of surrender. "Hey, white flag! I'm just throwing ideas into the brainstorm cloud here. You guys aren't exactly full of brilliant solutions. I'm telling you, we'd get more answers if we just summon this dude and get the party started."

There was a heavy silence.

Sam let out a breath through his nose, eyes shifting to Bobby and he said in a soft voice, "Do you think it could be another one of Azaezal's experiments?"

Dean looked sour and a bit like he had been stung by a bee. "You would have met him in pageant camp if that was the deal."

A shrug was the answer. "I dunno. Maybe he never made it?"

"Oh yeah. The one that got away." Dean snorted and dropped the gem to the floor, crossing his arms. "His invite to the demonically-fueled Hunger Games got lost in the mail."

Sam flinched lightly, before he threw Dean his bitch face. "White flag. I was just throwing ideas into the brainstorm cloud." He mimicked.

Dean threw his head back and emitted a suffering moan. "That's it."

The older Winchester stood, face screaming that he was fed up with this guessing game. "We've done it your way and we're still as empty-handed as before. Now, it's the Dean-way. We have everything we need right here: Bobby's place is a fucking mine of protection gear. Holy water, silver bullets, rock salt, dead man's blood, wooden stakes, guns, knives, and man power. We can take this dude on no matter what his freaky psychic power is. Three against one."

Dean pulled out his pistol and kick Sam's leg, ignoring his yelp of protest, to jostle him into moving. "Bobby. Start translating that shit."

Bobby heaved a breath, looking uncertainly between the two boys he thought of as his sons and clicked his tongue. They were at a loss of what to do. Fine. "Shino masutaa wo shoukan suru ni ha…"

To summon the Master of Death…

-xXx-

Harry had had a pretty slow going day.

No stalkers. No determined redheaded vipers.

It was odd. His day had actually been somewhat calm. He was starting to believe that Hermione and Kingsley had been right. A few days off and he would be as good as new.

Harry had woken up this morning with a full, beautiful seven hours of sleep under his belt. He felt refreshed and energized when he jumped out of bed and dressed. He practically skipped to the bus stop and hummed on his way to grab his daily cup of joe. He read the newspaper and found a quaint library in which he looked fascinatedly at ludicrous muggle projections of what a magical world would hold in novels of the sci-fi section. He picked up lunch at a salad bar and even went to see a film before he made his way back to the Hilton.

He had managed to keep his paranoia down to a low level and he had only profiled about ten people the whole day.

What could he say? You could take a soldier out of his station, but you could not erase the soldier within him. Harry was an Auror through and through, and it was this fact that made him feel proud of his behaviour today.

Runsack still bobbing at his side, he slipped the keycard into the card box that gave entryway to his room like a pro and shuffled into the bathroom.

He faced his reflection in the mirror with a slight grimace and reached up, letting his hair loose and shaking his head like a wet dog. Harry hummed softly as he felt the ever-present tension in his temples decrease and his fingertips rose to ruffle his bangs, gently applying a soothing pressure to his scalp.

He let himself stand there for a moment, just enjoying the silence around him and giving his lungs a chance to inflate to the brim with the fresh, clean oxygen of Colorado Springs. The air was different here, he noticed. It was thin due to elevation, yes, but it was clearer than that of Little Whinging: less polluted. It was like inhaling crisp ice crystals purer than water from the tap.

Harry blinked lazily and pulled his glasses off the bridge of his nose.

Now, he stared intensely at his blurred reflection. He should get contacts, he contemplated. That or he should use one of the many healing charms he knew to correct his eyesight. Over the years it had gotten worse. He could not see details, just blobs and color. So he stared at the oddly proportioned green dots that were where his eyes should be.

He would have voiced his desire for a long, hot shower, but all of a sudden, he felt a crucifying pain shoot through his stomach, as if someone had poked a smoldering sword through his naval.

Gone were the distorted colors.

He saw black.

-xXx-

As soon as a body appeared out of thin air, the hunter in Dean took over like a vicious instinct. Pistol cocked and eyes cautious, he threw up a hand to signal a cease of movement to his companions.

Gone were the Japanese characters that created Death's prison and in their place were a mixture of odd looking sigils and katakana, mixed together and carved into the floor's wood with one of Bobby's spare pocket knives. The scripture had warned that the summoning circle would not hold its inhabitant captive—it merely forced his presence.

So, he eyed the crumpled heap in its center. The figure lie face down and unconscious. Though, he well knew that that did not mean he was safe to approach. Eyes still glued on it, Dean felt his muscles tense.

"Sam." He said in a hushed but firm voice. "This the guy we're looking for?"

The younger Winchester stood behind Dean, who had jumped in front of him the moment the wilted figure beamed into existence. Hesitantly, he side stepped and peered over Dean's shoulder. From this angle, he could not see much but the familiar sight of all black clothing and tousled hair.

"I think so."

Sam waited for his brother to give him the sign it was okay to advance. He watched with an odd sense of anticipation as Dean stepped forward close enough to nudge the figure with his toe. When nothing happened, he witnessed his brother drop his pistol to his side and whip around to face them, his face hardened from years of being in the business. "There's no telling how long he'll be knocked out for. We've gotta move fast."

Dean's hazel green eyes swiveled to Bobby. "Get the rope. I'll get the chair." He then threw Sam a sharp nod that immediately told him his duty.

Sam felt uncharacteristically nervous as he made his way into the ring and faced his responsibility. He kneeled down, eyes sweeping over the limp man. For a moment, the only movement was the rise and fall of Evans' body that told Sam the man was at least alive. Nope, not a ghost or an angel.

With careful hands, he removed the backpack from the body, placing it to the side. His head rose as he turned to Dean and Bobby, who were cutting sections of firmly braided rope. "We're on the last one, Sammy. Let's go."

With a deep breath, Sam reached down and turned the body around to face upward as he lifted it off the ground. For a moment, he found himself unexpectedly paralyzed.

This was, without a doubt, the same man that had bumped into him in the Manitou Springs coffee shop.

The things he and Dean hunted were abominations of nature. They were disgusting and resistant to the natural order. Vile vermin with exploded egos and hideous faces and bloodthirsty cravings for chaos. Things that liked to prey on humanity or charm a lost person into selling their souls. They were all ugly beings. Even sirens: their alluring images were solely projections of man's fantasy—an induced hallucination that tricked their victims into seeing not their true decrepit and rotting visages. Or vampires: whose seduction was also known to blinded humans with the temptation of immortality, foregoing the details of its price—dead bodies, frozen hearts, and an unmaskable coldness.

But, the body Sam now cradled in his arms was neither ghastly nor icy. He felt a heartbeat steadily from where his left hand lay, he felt the warmth radiating from the man's body, and as he gazed upon the familiar face, he felt his throat clog and constrict.

The man did not _feel_ very threatening.

Even considering his unconscious state, Sam felt his mind having difficulty trying to conjure an image of this man on a malicious rampage of death. As he walked slowly to the chair set out by Dean, he thought the man in his arms seemed just that. A man.

A man that was perhaps a bit underweight, despite the obvious fit form covered with black attire.

He continued on autopilot as Dean helped him, none too gently, arrange the man in the chair.

Even though he was sitting now, Sam knew the man was smaller than him. Smaller than Dean. Eyelids closed, plentiful lashes curled and noticeable against pale skin, not really hiding the dark bags that uttered confessions of a lack of sleep. Ebony curls messy like a fitful halo, bangs plastered to his forehead by a layer of sweat. Pink lips, chapped, but full, parted and jaw-slacked.

As it had last time they met, an unidentifiable emotion swept over Sam.

He watched through a fog, so consumed in his ponderings as Dean's strong hands tied the rope tightly around each ankle and wrist, leaving no wiggle room. He almost felt inclined to remind his brother that this man actually needed room to breathe. But, instead, his eyes observed the tan rope's bristles cutting into the flesh. The wrist was already beginning to redden with discomfort.

Was this truly the Master of Death?

He looked so normal.

-xXx-

The first thing Harry became aware of was that he was bound to a chair.

His mind was foggy and his eyes were glued shut. He could instinctively knew there was darkness in his location. The air was cold, still, uncomfortable and foreshadowing. He forced his eyes open and was greeted with blurs.

Harry inhaled sharply and tested his freedom to find that he could not use his arms or legs. He was tied to a chair…and he was secured very well.

The Auror Academy trained their students to not think of what, when, or where in the rare event of being held captive. They trained them to think of how to get out. The key to survival in most hostage situations was not compliance, contrary to popular belief. It was surveying your options. One had to scan the environment. Digest their stance, their captor, weaknesses in their enclosed structure, and options for exit.

That was what he would do. But, he was at a severe disadvantage, considering he could not see.

Harry was suddenly alert.

He could not see.

His eyes jerked from left to right, but no avail. The world was a blurry mess.

Abruptly, out of nowhere, he heard a deafening click and something was pressed without caution into his temple. It was cold and circular and Harry had a flashback to spying on his cousin Dudley watching spy movies on the television. Was that a gun held against his head?

Honestly. Harry would not know. It had never happened before. Wand? Totally. Gun? He had never seen one in real life.

That was enough, Harry concluded and pulled himself together. He sat up as straight as he could, not flinching at the cold metal and let his instincts run the show. He flicked on his magic sensitivity and was greeted with three auras.

Three occupants in the room. Three captors. Three against one.

No big deal. Harry had surely taken on worse when he stumbled into the Forbidden Forest to meet Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the Final Battle. But then again, he was murdered when that happened.

Small details had no place at the time, he screamed to himself.

"So, Master of Death, eh?" a strictly masculine voice rumbled from his left. The voice was low and disapproving. "That's kind of a big title isn't it?

Harry felt his heart rate quicken as he took in the auras once again. Two muggles, that was for sure. Not a drop of magic in these buggers. But, suddenly, a blob caught the corner of his eye off to the right. As he turned his head, the metal dragged across his left ear. He should have been reminding himself that wizard or not, a gunshot to the head would prove fatal. But, bullets were the last thing on his mind as his chest ached with dread.

The third aura was impressively larger than the first two he encountered. And it was speckled with the same black inkiness that had been on his tail since he left Dick Roman's motivational speech.

Bloody fucking hell. He should have known that a _stupefy_ would not have been enough to rid of his stalkers. They found him.

-xXx-

Dean readjusted his gun at his hunt's temple, watching him like a viper stalking its prey. The Master of Death sat tied to Bobby's old wooden desk chair and he had to think to himself: oh, how the mighty have fallen. Whoever this dude was, whatever his position and connection to the fearsome and all-powerful Death, it did not matter. For right now, they had him on lockdown.

"Woah there, tiger." Dean laughed without amusement when the man's head shot toward Sam's direction. If this chucklehead tried any funny, supernatural business, he was going to send a bullet home. "Bobby!" he called out.

The eldest hunter stepped forward and with a quick flick of his hands sent a hearty amount of holy water spraying onto the raven curls and oval face.

They all watched eager for a response as the man in the chair jerked back in shock, but nothing happened after that. No smoke or steam or scream of agony.

-xXx-

Harry blinked in astonishment as he felt the drips of cold water drizzle down his face and neck. Then, he could not help it. Out of all the cases he had ever taken on and out of all of the cases on which he had been kidnapped by avenging dark supporters, he had never had a cup of water sprayed in his face.

"What the _bloody fuck_?" he stated. It just sort of slipped out. Normally, he liked to think he was more in control of his impulsivity since the war had ended, but on occasion, such as those in which he was greeted with the unfamiliar, he tended to simply react.

Great. He could not see. He was definitely not in Colorado Springs. And, now, he was positively drenched. It was at times like these that he considered he did not get paid enough. He was not a happy camper.

"Did you just throw a bloody bottle of water on me?" A cruciatus he would have expected if he were surrounded by wizards. Muggles? Maybe a chainsaw or something gruesome. But, water? He felt his face contort into confusion.

Seriously. His stalkers finally kidnap him and they throw a bottle of water on him? Harry sighed moodily and readjusted himself in the chair.

"You bloody gits have been on my ass for the last few weeks and as soon as you get me, you give me a shower?"

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He felt the tiredness he was supposed to be sleeping away on vacation right now creep up on him again. Seven hours, he guessed, one night out of the past few years was not enough to recharge his batteries, especially if he had been left without his customary tea.

His eyes were useless. But, if he could get them to talk, he would be able to identify where they were exactly in the room and what the purpose of this was. If he was lucky, he could be dealing with the type of villains that like to hear themselves talk—a situation he believed he was in due to the mocking, playful tone that regarded him just seconds ago. Two could play that game. He was, after all, an investigator.

"So, you know we've been hunting your ass, huh? Feeling kind of special?" the deep tone inquired.

Definitely a talker and an arrogant one at that. Harry let his lips twitch upwards in a tiny smirk. "Of course. Your team wasn't exactly being subtle about it."

"Oh?" the voice urged him on.

Harry did a quick calculation in his head. The man had mentioned him being the Master of Death, which obviously meant he was knowledgeable of the Deathly Hallow, which would mean that he was no stranger to magic. Two muggles auras and one mixed with black. Harry had still to identify what type of creature these beings with wispy black auras were, although it was not completely outlandish to categorize them as a subset of squib. Perhaps, a squib of a dark family was not hunting the Hallows? It was entirely possible and had happened before on cases that were rumored in the tea longue of the ministry. Tales of magic-starved squibs who believed the Hallows would provide them with enough power to be revered and honored in the magical world, rather than shunned.

It was a good theory. But, he could not be certain. And, given his current situation could not get much worse, he decided he could ask.

"You've been following me since I ran into your friend with the dog. What is it that you want?" He let his head turn to the right, watching the tainted aura. "And what the hell are you?"

Dean looked incredulously at Sam, mouthing a 'what the fuck.'

Sam face was scrunched up and he shook his head, looking to Bobby who just shrugged.

Dean cleared his throat and re-focused himself. "We're human. That's what we are." His answer was bored and held a sense of animosity that clearly implied that his captive was obviously not human. But, it did not phase the Master of Death.

A snort. "Congratulations. Then we have that in common, you and I." his head nodded to Bobby's general direction. "Him too. But, what about you?" He turned all the way towards Sam who was on the right side of the summoning circle.

Harry was breaking just about every Auror training rule, but he felt his old strong curiosity coming back to him. "What is your kind so interested in me?"

It was at that moment that Sam realized the man's emerald eyes were facing him, but not moving. It was eerily like watching a blind man and then he remembered.

_Opening the door, a bump to his chest, a squeak, hands catching his laptop, an embarrassed flush, and bottle cap lenses._

Sam's eyes looked to the side of the summoning circle where surely, a pair of glasses where sitting where the man had crumpled. They were circular and dorky, definitely old fashioned, not that he kept up with trends. Not sure why he did it, he bent down, grasped them, then moved in front of the man.

As he unfolded them and reached out to place them where they should be, he took in the eyes. They were not moss green like Dean's. In fact, they held no hint of hazel and Sam was struck with the notion that they were unearthly green. Too green, with no flecks of brown or even blue. Undiluted.

And they widened as he approached. But, they were not really looking at him. They were looking around him.

Harry was wondering how many times he was going to be startled today as he felt large, but gentle fingers prop his glasses on the bridge of his nose and tuck their hooks behind his ears.

The auror reacted quickly to his sight being returned and immediately took in the details around him. It was approximately ten at night. He was in what appeared to be an untidy study full of a mounds of books and run down furniture. He was in a wooden chair that he assumed was aged due to the fact that it creaked with his every squirm. The rope, however, wrapped around his wrists and ankles was brand new and stiff. He would not be able to fight his way out of it, but if he could focus enough on his core, he might be able to perform some wandless magic.

His eyes caught fell to his feet. The floorboards. They were covered in rough carvings of what he recognized to be ancient runes and…Chinese?

"Well. I hope you're done taking in the décor. It's not quite HG-TV, but it's home. Bobby? Test number two, shall we? It's getting kinda late."

Harry's eyes ripped from the floor as 'Bobby' stepped to him. A man in his forties that looked worse for wear. Harry's eyes were quick in taking in the details. The trim beard, cap, rounded stomach, and untrusting eyes. A knife in his hand.

The boy who lived was creating a plan in which he could throw a repelling charm at the offending weapon, but in the time his thoughts progressed, the knife came down and he felt its cool metal part the skin of his forearm.

Harry stiffened, but he had a high tolerance for pain. In fact, the wound barely pinched. He could have sworn that knife was going to slit his throat, not give him a paper cut. He looked as Bobby eyed him suspiciously, but deflatedly.

"Nope." The older man's voice was husky.

"Okay…salt?" a voice suggested.

Bobby now held a glass salt shaker in his hand and without hesitation, he uncapped it and poured it thankfully not into the wound previously inflicted, but onto Harry's other arm.

There was a silence.

Harry now peered to the left to meet the eyes of the conversationalist. His loquacious kidnapper. The man was macho, black leather jacket and all. Tough guy exterior with symmetrical, attractive features and blond cropped hair. Hazel green eyes looked down at him accusingly.

Harry smacked his lips together. From what he had seen, these two did not appear anything like dark supporters who were usually dressed to the T with slicked back hair like his childhood rival, Draco Malfoy. Each were dressed so casually, they looked about ready to go on a fishing trip. But, Harry did not let their appearances misguide him. Harry could not read ancient runes well, that had been more of Hermione's job, and neither could he read Asian characters.

All he knew was that he was not in the Hilton and even though these men had no magical abilities, they had gotten him here somehow. This meant that they could possibly harm him if he was not playing smart.

He anchored his grip on his core and began pushing his magic towards his wrists. If he could just keep them busy and buy himself time.

"Alright then." Harry hummed, locking eyes with the man to his left. "So, you've doused me with water, slit me up, and then poured on some salt. You gonna bake me or something? Should we turn the oven to three-fifty?"

He quite enjoyed the way the man's head bobbed back and looked at him like an alien. "No baking." He said, amused and mocking tone gone. "Just trying to see what makes you tick. What should we try next, Sammy? Wooden stake?"

Harry pushed his magic harder. "A wooden stake? Are you sure this isn't a demented pig roast?"

Harry was full heartedly intending to send a fake laugh in this Sammy's direction until he saw the giant lurking into his channel of vision. For a moment, Harry lost concentration on what he was doing.

The approximately six foot four, brown hair, doe eyed, maybe-college student from OrganiCore.

Harry felt a voice snort in the back of his head. It sincerely hoped this was not all about his laptop.

-xXx-

There were times when Crowley wondered why he even bothered to scoop up the position as King of Hell.

The job description was contradictory to the title. A king should sit around, doing nothing but have his loyal servants cling to his every demand and desire. Yet, being the King of Hell was a hell of a lot harder than it sounded. The King of Hell was unable to indulge in the luxury of sloth while his faithful hands were about conducting his business because his faithful hands were a bunch of bloody, blathering, moronic imbeciles.

Send two demons to play chaperone to a measly human and ba-boom! The human sends them back home with their tails between their legs, looking like mangy flea-bitten poodles tossed by force into the basement.

If you asked him, the two idiots deserved their current places back on the rack. They deserved every little knick and tear that sliced into their mutilated souls. There was nothing more encouraging than a round of punishment to help one realize the irritation caused by their failures.

"Ugh," he sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes.

That was exactly what he got for sending in two low-grade, bottom of the totem pole demons to do his dirty work for him.

The sad adage stands true: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

And so, Crowley tossed back the rest of his scotch and thanked his stars that his secret interest's energy was so easily discernible.

Ah, yes! There it was. At least one reason why he bothered to claim the position as King of Hell.

He could pinpoint him with ease.

* * *

_A/N: -hides- Don't kill me! (: I sincerely apologize for the long wait for the update, though I sincerely appreciate all of the reviews and encouragement I have received to aid me in continuing the story and prompting me to get back on schedule!_

_It's been very busy by me. Packing and getting ready for school. :/ Speaking of which. My update schedule may be looking a bit peculiar in the future considering school. So, just bear with me!_

_Anywho. This chapter is like double the size of the normal, so I hope that makes up a little bit. Hope you enjoyed! Mwahaha...More Sam-Harry, Crowley-Harry, and Dream Team-Harry interaction to come. Stick around._

_Please review! _


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